“Well, you could be right.” We looked gloomily into our empty glasses and found no answers there. But then the timer pinged; the kids swooped in; Margaret got up to serve the lunch. We ate and I felt Hugh’s forehead again. We talked about the girls’ progress at Havergal. Traces of pink icing lingered around Martha’s mouth as she grinned at me cheerfully.
“Now, before I forget, Anne,” Margaret said briskly as she passed the salad bowl, “you’ve got to make an effort about this Science Club. They meet just once a month. You’d be in touch with all kinds of specialists, and hear interesting papers … just forget all that about not being a joiner. Somebody gave me a membership form the other day, and you’re to take it away when you go. Got that?”
“Yes, Margaret.” And the fetus under my ribs gave a hilarious kick. Maybe it already had a sense of humour.
Getting ready for Billie’s visit was no problem. She never seemed to notice things like dust or clutter. So, while the kids napped, I sank into a deep chair, put up my swollen legs, and stole an hour’s brief, ginny doze.
After that, all I had to do was set up the drinks tray and shut Violet into a bedroom. I wheeled the TV into the dining-room and, squatting breathlessly, managed to plug it in. There was even time before the kids woke to take a quick shower, have a rub with body lotion (glorious on the itchy, distended belly), and put on the least unattractive of my maternity smocks. By the time five o’clock rolled around, the kids were up and washed, and magnetized by the box, and I’d had a shot at improving my face with some green eyeshadow. Billie was always late, bless her. There was even time to get the mushroom canapés ready for the oven. All this gave me the rare and welcome feeling of being serenely well-organized in the Margaret manner.
When Billie arrived, it was with her usual little shrieks of disgust at the weather. The wind had dropped and it was milder, but fat snowflakes had begun to coast down in a purposeful sort of way. She left on her handsome high leather boots, grumbling that one might as well wear them night and day in this awful climate. Then she touched a cool cheek to mine, saying, “Sweetie.” To Mao, who sat on the hall table eyeing her with critical blue eyes, she cried, “Elegance!” and he closed them in gracious acknowledgement. After a quick visit to the downstairs loo, she peeped briefly at the children through the leaded-glass dining-room doors. Then, murmuring, “Don’t disturb the dolls,” she lowered herself into the most comfortable chair and hitched it closer to the fire. For just a second something about her caught at my attention – a darkish look under the eyes, was it? No, just a trick of the meagre winter light. She looked marvellous as ever in what she still called a “little black dress,” her small feet crossed at the ankles and garnets twinkling in her ears.
“Well, this is nice,” she said, after a quick, apprehensive glance into the hall. “That awful beast of yours isn’t loose, is it?”
“No, shut up safely, licking her eczema. Will you mix your drink, or shall I?”
“Not to bother, sweetie – I very thoughtfully brought my own. Just a little ice, if you don’t mind.” On her last visit, there’d been nothing to drink in the house but some rather nasty sherry, and Billie did not lightly forget things like that. With a flash of her mischievous smile, she produced a large flask from her shoulder-bag.
“Oh, Billie, that’s supposed to be a very bad sign.”
Blandly not hearing, she poured herself a generous drink. “I know the beast has attractive Duncan Phyffe feet, but I can happily do without all the rest of it. Why has it got eczema – just to annoy?”
“She misses Ross.”
“Which shows she is dim as well as dreadful. Why didn’t he take the brute with him? Too smart, that’s why. Well, anyhow, cheers, sweetie. You and your friend. God, it must be about ready to walk out, you’re so enormous.”
“Please don’t ask me how I feel or when I’m due. I might scream.”
“I’ll change the subject, doll. But that’s what you should have done two years ago, if not before. Don’t you want to hear my nice news?”
“Yes – yes – just let me stick the canapés on.”
But my chief purpose in hurrying to the kitchen was to hide an unpleasant flush of irritation. It was not kind of Billie to be so sharp at my expense. I had to stand at the window for quite a few minutes, staring at the snow clinging in white clots to the glass and biting my knuckles, before I could go back to her.
“Well, what’s this great news, then?”
“Aren’t you going to have a drink, sweetie?”
“Oh no; I had a martini with lunch, actually, and now both of us have hiccups. I’ll have a glass of milk or something.”
“No, no, have another martini at once. Show it who’s boss. Here, I’ll fix it for you.”
Her little hands were incapable of sewing, changing gears, planting anything, or using any tool more complicated than a fork, but in two or three effortless, graceful gestures, they produced a perfect, silver-gilt cocktail. I took a resigned sip and with only partial success repressed a belch. “This is a mistake, I know,” I muttered. But Billie was absorbed in a head-on-one-side contemplation of her own elegant legs. My own looked like cathedral pillars beside them, and I tucked them out of sight.
“Well, doll, you know how clever Max is with money,” she began, spreading out her manicured fingers to the fire.
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, what Daddy left me was all invested in some rather dull stock, railways or something, and you know how the income from it has been quietly shrivelling away for a long time. But about three years ago, Max reinvested it all for me, and the stocks or margins went up or down, or whatever they do, and what do you think? It’s coupon-cutting time, and I’ve made five thousand dollars’ profit!”
“Heavens. How nice for you.”
“Isn’t it? And sweetie, I want it to be nice for you too. Have your drink.” She refilled her own glass. “Now, I’ve got the most brilliant idea. Just picture this – you and me in Santa Lucia. Dwell on it, ducky. It’s enough off the beaten track so the tourist man says there’ll be no trouble getting reservations for the end of March. I intend to blow the whole lot, sweetie, and give you and me the holiday of our lives.”
Roughly six different remarks occurred to me simultaneously. “You only got back from San Francisco a month ago” was one of the less agreeable ones. I put down my drink – it or something else was giving me severe indigestion – and said, “Yes, but Billie, it’s a lovely idea, only you do realize I’ll only just be out of hospital at the end of –”
“Exactly,” she said with triumph.
“Then how in the world can you expect me to –”
“Now just listen carefully to me, doll. I have it all figured out, down to the smallest detail. You and Max never seem to realize how intensely practical I am. Now, I suppose you’ll insist on breast-feeding this new one like the other two – though why anyone would, with bottles in this world, I’ll never know – anyhow, much as I deplore this, Baby is invited too. At least it will be new, and sleep a lot. They have basket things for them on the plane, and stewardesses cope with diapers and all that. And once we get there, the island will be full of nice black girls to nanny it.”
“And what about Martha and Hugh?”
“Well, I did wonder whether your nice neighbour might take them. It would only be for a few weeks, and you’re always saying how good she is.”
“Billie, nobody is that good. No, you cannot possibly do that to a neighbour. I’m sorry – it was a lovely idea, but –”
“Now just a minute, doll. Don’t interrupt. That was just a passing thought. No, I’ve worked out all the angles. You know those people called Homemakers? – you just call up an agency and they send somebody around. Just like that; sleep in, full time, as long as you like; all bonded and guaranteed and everything. And it’s all on me. Part of the deal. Now, aren’t I marvellous?”
I stood up, feeling suddenly as if I might just crack into a whole lot of small, jagged piec
es. Things were so hard and dangerous and sore with me at the moment that there was no time to wonder why Billie needed my company so much now when she had never seemed to need it before. My face felt hot and my tongue thick.
“Look, Billie – Homemakers – guaranteed for what? Who the hell are they? Do you think I’d leave my kids with a stranger, unless I had absolutely no choice? I am my children’s home. You may think that’s everybody’s bad luck, and maybe it is; but there we are. Thanks anyway, but I can’t go away. Not for a weekend, never mind weeks.”
“I do wish you’d try not to be so Mother Rabbit about everything,” she said crossly. “Ever since you got all these children you’ve gone primitive in the most boring way. I never thought you’d go to seed like this, a girl with your looks and intelligence. Good grief, Anne, you’re not twenty-four yet, and you act like somebody’s tedious old grandmother. What’s worse, you think like one.”
“I know you don’t mean that for a compliment.”
“Of course I don’t.”
Huffily she refilled her glass. Too late I caught a drift of smoke from the kitchen and hurried out to pull a pan of scorched canapés from the oven. Like the Happy Hour, they had not turned out well. I took them into the other room and, already ashamed of my bad temper, offered them with apologies.
“I’m sorry, Bill. You know I wish I could go, and it’s a lovely, generous thought. Only it’s just bloody well impossible, that’s all.” Even as I said this, some of the bad temper oozed back. Why, after all, should I feel guilty about refusing to leave my kids to the mercies of some Pamela from an agency in order to help Billie prop up a beachside bar?
“We’ll say no more about it,” she said with dignity, adjusting the garnet in her pierced ear. “I was simply trying to help. The very last thing on earth I’d ever do is interfere, you know that. You’ll give me credit for that much, I hope. In your particular situation, I just thought it would be especially good for you to get away. After this ghastly winter and all the problems you’ve got, any intelligent person would agree that you need a holiday, if only for mental health. However, if you won’t go, you won’t. I wouldn’t dream of pressing you. Let’s change the subject. Max gave me this bracelet for my birthday – pretty, isn’t it?”
I drew a mighty breath to reply, and then swallowed the words. There was absolutely no point in quarrelling with Billie. Better to try mustering a grin at her self-righteousness. She was Martha’s grandmother, all right, whether she liked it or not.
“By the way,” she added carelessly “when I told Max about the Santa Lucia idea, he said right away that it was just what you needed. I only mention it because I know you respect his opinion a lot more than mine.”
“Please, Billie. Have another bloody mushroom thing and let me see the bracelet properly. Did he get it at a dealer’s?”
“Yes, of course. You know he’s got friends under every rock.”
I glanced at her, startled. It was not at all like Billie to be so acid, specially about Max.
“… er … things not going well with you two?”
“Don’t be silly. You know we’ve never had even a small tiff in all these years. We might just have one soon, though. He’s been nagging me to have a check-up, and it gets on my nerves.”
“A check-up? What for?”
“Nothing, absolutely nothing. I’m perfectly all right. Only Max is so neurotic about other people’s organs. It’s too boring.” Crossly she brushed a crumb or two of canapé off her lap. I was keen to hear more about all this, but the thought of any more conflict was so daunting that I seized on what I thought would be a safer subject.
“Well, I just wondered … after all, a second marriage must be – tell me, what was my father like, Billie?”
“What, Daddy?”
“Yes, only why do you always call him that? It’s such a kinky thing to call your husband.”
“Well, he was ages older than me, you know.”
“Yes, I know, but –”
“Well, it was one of those relationships, that’s all. He liked me to be a little girl; and I needed a father. My own parents married horribly late, and they both popped off when I was fourteen. Most inconsiderate of them. So I grabbed at your father.”
“I see. Well, it should have worked out very well.”
“But it didn’t, you know. Not at all.”
“Why was that, then?”
“Oh, mostly because he always had his head in a book. Then, of course, I immediately started you and was appalled. Nothing personal, sweetie – but you were never meant to happen. There’s just nothing on this earth more totally boring than being pregnant and then looking after little kids. Fish have the right idea – just lay a few neat eggs and then take off. Fast.”
“I don’t agree it’s boring. But go on.”
“My own mother, poor creature, thought I was indigestion or the menopause for six whole months, you know. She actually fainted when the doctor told her.”
I tried not to, but Billie’s flashing, crooked smile forced a laugh out of me.
“Well, I suppose scholars aren’t easy people to be married to,” I said, to bring her back to the real subject. “But you haven’t told me yet what my father was like.”
She leaned forward and rubbed her fingers to warm them. A frown pinched her face and gave it a strained look. “Oh, Maurice was a creature of habit. Always in the library or somewhere like that. We had almost no social life except for ghastly dinners we had to go to, and then give back … oh, those colleagues of his, all of them arthritic or deaf, and their dreadful wives, only interested in the W.I., or breeding cockers … sometimes I thought I’d shriek out loud out of sheer, horrible boredom. So, what with one thing and another, we quarrelled all the time. No, it was a disaster, really. Miserable for both of us.”
“But you still haven’t told me what he was really like.”
She set down her glass with a sharp little clink.
“He was a cold man. Not just reserved or shy – I thought it was that at first. No, he was cold. Kept himself private. Even in bed.”
“Oh. That must have been grim.” It seemed to me that now at last I understood a little something about my parents, and consequently about myself. “So that’s why after he died you travelled around so much. It must have been heaven to be free.”
“It was nothing of the kind,” she said.
Suddenly I felt uneasy, as if I were about to learn something not at all foreseen; something I might not be able to handle.
“No. When he died I was just about destroyed, if you want to know.” She turned her head away. Her voice sounded thin and desolate, like the voice of a very old woman.
“Why do you think we kept on the move? – why was it always by the sea? Because I liked to look out and see no limits anywhere. That way I could think he was still somewhere, even if – Well, the only way I could keep going was to meet new people all the time in pubs and trains and places like that. Have a few laughs and keep sex casual. And in a way it’s still like that. Although I’m very fond of Max, as you know.”
I tipped down the last of my drink, though it had been clear for some time now that it was doing me no good whatever. My head felt unpleasantly disturbed, as if too many new ideas had crowded into it at once. I turned to Billie, but before I could speak, bedlam broke out in the next room. Of course, the only surprise about that was that it hadn’t happened sooner. With a groan I got up and jerked open the dining-room door. Hugh had fallen (or more likely been pushed), and lay on his back howling and kicking in frustration, while Martha stamped around him chanting, “Crybaby cry! Crybaby cry!” At the sight of my expression she added in a small, pathetic voice, “He took my book.”
When I hoisted Hugh up, I found he was indeed clinging to her book, a rather disgusting washable but unwashed affair depicting kittens. It was a book he liked, but this was rare self-assertion, and I muttered “Congratulations” as I plucked it away from him. I put it on the sideboard out of reach, feel
ing for a moment disoriented and a little dizzy. I didn’t want to go back into the sitting-room. I didn’t want to see Billie or remember what she’d told me.
Wiping off Hugh’s face, I perched him on my arm and gave him a kiss. He was too warm. Temperature going up, without a doubt. Pull yourself together, I told myself, and said to the kids, “Come along and say hello to Billie.”
“Has she got presents?” demanded Martha, cutting off a yell halfway.
“No, you horrible child, she has not. But you can have a nice mushroom thing. Let’s go.”
Billie, with a fresh drink in hand, had recovered enough equanimity to greet them with her usual rueful, ironic warmth.
“Don’t touch my dress, sweeties,” she warned them. “Sit down somewhere over there and I’ll give you both something terribly nice.” She then produced from her handbag two small boxes of maraschino chocolates, of all things. They tore off the ribbons and wrapping and at once began to stuff their mouths.
“I believe in giving people things that aren’t good for them,” she said with satisfaction. “What else are presents for?”
I looked at her and softened. With Billie, frivolity sometimes reached the point of wisdom.
“Thank you, Billie,” I said loudly to the children.
“Sink you, Billie,” murmured Martha behind a mask of chocolate. Hugh’s smeared face beamed at us joyfully. Just in time, I prevented him from wiping his hand on the carpet.
“Disgusting little brutes,” she said. “I’ll just trot off to the little girls’ room till they’re finished.”
The instant she was out of sight, I took the boxes away and tried to clean up their faces and hands. Martha immediately hurled herself prone and began to drum her head and heels on the floor. Billie, when she came back, looked so genuinely appalled at this performance that I dragged my child out of the room by one arm – rather more hoping to dislocate it than not – and in the kitchen doused her with a glassful of cold water. It didn’t do much for the kitchen floor, but it cut off the tantrum like magic. Martha sat for a moment astonished in the puddle. Then she began to laugh in great, hoarse guffaws. Hugh tottered in, coughing, and his filthy face broke open in a wide grin that showed all his little chipmunk teeth.
The Marriage Bed Page 11