And when you looked at it that way you had to feel sorry for Dot, didn’t you, as her family were no better; sometimes they even seemed weirder than her own. At least on the face of it hers were semi-normal, she at least had the requisite number of parents and a mother with a fairly run-of-the-mill mental illness. Dot was stuck in that creepy house of hers with a grandmother who thought she was a cross between the Queen and God and a mother who lived her life as if she ingested industrial doses of Valium on a daily basis. Because what mother would never mention their daughter’s father, never even tell her his name, pretend like she was an immaculate conception? ‘Why don’t you just ask her?’ Mavis would ask Dot when she was still too young to understand the impossibility of the situation. Of course she’d understood for years now; she’d worked out long ago that families, unless they inhabit American TV shows, do not communicate when they speak. Now her hopes for redemption for both of them centred on late-night conversations in student digs illuminated only by fairy lights and candles in which they’d amuse their fellow students with tales about their lunatic mothers, making themselves sound so much more interesting in the process.
Mavis and Dot had often speculated whether they’d been drawn together because of this; they’d even made themselves blood sisters at some single-figured age and then had their noses pierced together in a shabby tattoo parlour in Cartertown when much too young. Dot’s grandmother had been the only adult in their lives to comment on this and even she had limited her disapproval to a shake of the head and a sharp intake of breath, something which had pleased them less than an observer might have thought. Two weird lonely little girls feeling their way through life without any real guidance. The thought was enough to make Mavis turn her phone back on, but as soon as she did it bleeped the arrival of a message. She pressed the screen and her heart flipped pathetically when she saw it was from Clive.
Yo! Debs n C r havin a hip hopping NYE party. Druith Cricket Club. 8 till late. Respect.
It was enough to make Mavis want to cry, although she never would have done. He thought so little of her he was happy to fuck her, not speak to her for six weeks and still invite her in a group text to his party. Why not shit on her doorstep while he was at it? Although probably she only had herself to blame. He’d been joined at the lips to Debra Paulson since year nine and she had the wardrobe of Kylie Minogue and the body of a porn star, as well as the reputation for never refusing anal sex. And Mavis had gagged. She’d been trying to block out the memory since it had happened but it refused to leave her alone, worrying her like a bad dream. She had been reassuring herself by repeating the mantra, ‘It had only been for a second, maybe he hadn’t noticed?’ Mavis groaned and lay back heavily on to her bed; of course he’d noticed. He’d noticed and told all their friends; right now boys she had known since primary school were doubling over at the tale of that frigid freak Mavis. But it had been a shock. She’d read enough Anaïs Nin and Nabokov to expect his dick to taste salty and fishy like the sea, but it hadn’t, it had tasted of sweat and even (faintly) of urine and she’d been overwhelmed by the thought that she might as well be licking a toilet seat, which had made her gag, just for a second.
Her phone rang and it was inevitably Dot.
‘Hello.’
‘Mave, did you just get a text?’
Her friend sounded so over-excited she wanted to put the phone down again, she even contemplated lying, but knew it was useless. ‘You mean the one from Clive?’
‘Like, hello? Of fucking course.’ Mavis felt herself sink lower, as if her body was melting into the sheets. ‘I mean I didn’t even know he had our numbers.’
‘Of course he’s got our numbers. We’ve sat in small classrooms with him for most of our lives.’
‘Yeah, but …’
‘He’s gotta fill the cricket club.’
‘But still.’
‘Yeah, well.’
There was a pause and then the question Mavis had been dreading. ‘You are going, aren’t you?’
‘I sort of thought not.’
‘But why?’
‘Cos he’s basically a dick.’
‘Clive’s a dick? When did this happen?’
‘It didn’t happen, he’s always been a dick, I just hadn’t noticed before.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Fuck what?’
‘I mean, what’s got into you, Mave? You’ve got so moody lately and now you’re saying Clive’s a dick when I’ve sat up with you on many nights discussing the fineness of his arse.’
‘Yeah, well, you can be fit and still a dick, so.’
‘Right.’
‘I mean, fuck, we live in the middle of fucking nowhere and he’s having a hip hop night and in the fucking cricket club. I mean, please. He’s probably never even been to London, it’s so far on a fucking coach. And New Year’s Eve. That’s like ten weeks away or something. It’s tragic.’
‘OK, don’t come then, I’ll go on my own.’
‘Come on, don’t guilt trip me.’
‘Whatever. Have you asked your dad yet?’
‘Shit, I hoped you weren’t serious.’
‘Well I am.’
‘OK, I’ll do it tonight.’
‘Great.’
‘Great.’
Mavis and her parents’ supper always took place in the kitchen, even though they had a dining room, and her mother always kept the main light shining down, as if daring either of them to spill a drop. Her father was smoking at the back door when Mavis went in and her mother was worrying herself into a frenzy.
‘I think the ash is blowing in, Gerald,’ she was saying as she tried to drain the beans without splashing any unnecessary water over the pristine sink.
‘Well, if it is then I’ll sweep it up,’ he replied, raising his eyes at Mavis who pretended she hadn’t seen, sitting heavily instead in her place. Her father stubbed his cigarette against the door and threw the butt in the bin.
‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ said her mother.
‘Wouldn’t what?’ he answered.
‘It leaves marks, when you stub it on the paintwork.’
‘You’re joking, right? For Christ’s sake, Sandra, I stubbed it on the outside of the door. No one’s going to notice, except maybe a passing squirrel.’
Mavis was never going to hate anyone as much as her parents hated each other. She had to live here, but they actually chose this life. Her father pulled a bottle of wine from the rack and sat down. He was still wearing his tweed jacket, which he now shucked off, revealing another choice shirt/cardigan combo. He sniffed his wine before he drank it and Mavis hated him all the more for pretending that it wasn’t really £3.99 from Tesco.
‘Can I have a glass, Dad?’ she asked instead of the bile she wished she could vent.
He looked surprised, but checked himself, not wanting to betray the role he played of the hip music teacher. I should have been in a band, he liked to say, nearly was before family life came calling. He poured out some of the dark red fluid into Mavis’s glass but didn’t bother to offer any to his wife, who had never drunk, to Mavis’s knowledge.
The wine warmed her and so she said, ‘Oh, before I forget, Dot wants to learn piano.’
Her father looked stupidly pleased, as if he knew that the desire to appreciate music would come to everyone in the end. ‘Does she? That’s fantastic news.’
‘So, like, you’ll give her lessons?’
‘Of course. Hang on.’ He fetched his diary from the sideboard and flicked through it. ‘Mondays at five are good for me.’
‘I’ll text her.’ Mavis jabbed the message into her phone before the wine wore off, spooning her food in with the other hand.
‘You’ll spill it,’ said her mother.
‘For goodness’ sake, Sandra,’ said her father.
The phone bleeped back.
‘Looks like you’re on,’ said Mavis.
3 … Redemption
It began with the production of Romeo and Juliet at the villa
ge hall. Up until that moment Alice hadn’t realised that she wanted to stand on a stage and say other people’s words to a blacked-out audience. But she’d seen the poster when she was running an errand for her mother the Christmas after she’d left school and, really, what else was there to do? She’d gone straight round to Mr Jenkins’s house, as it said on the poster, and knocked at the door and he’d let her in and she’d read for him and got the part of Juliet, all in the space of thirty minutes. You’re a natural, Alice, he kept saying to her and she left with a lightness she’d never felt before because not only had she never been a natural at anything, but also because she knew he was right.
Somehow Alice knew not to tell her mother. She didn’t know any other grown-ups properly, certainly nothing beyond polite hellos and isn’t-the-weather-terrible conversations and so she had little to compare Clarice to, but she still knew her mother was odd. For a start she called her Clarice.
The other parts were soon allotted and they began daily rehearsals, either in the village hall or at Mr Jenkins’s house. Everyone was at least twenty years older than Alice which did make her love scenes with Romeo rather odd, but still she had never felt more relaxed or at ease in her life. The bliss of knowing exactly what you should say from beginning to end, of being allowed to use up all your reserves of emotion on someone else’s life … By the end of the first week she was already fantasising about the drama schools in London that Mr Jenkins said he would help her apply to.
‘Is your mother coming to the first night?’ Mr Jenkins asked her one evening, when they were washing up mugs in the village-hall kitchen. Alice had dreaded that question; everyone in Druith knew Clarice Cartwright, whose family had always owned the biggest house in the village, in which Alice and her mother still lived.
‘I haven’t told her I’m in the play yet,’ said Alice. She’d never known how to lie but keeping quiet wasn’t the same as lying. If her mother had ever asked her where she got to every afternoon she would have told her the truth in a heartbeat, but Clarice never had.
‘Oh but, Alice, you’ve got to. You’re amazing. She’d be so proud.’
‘I am eighteen, you know,’ she answered, as if she thought he was worried about permission.
‘But everyone will be talking about you. You outshine the others by a mile. You’ll definitely be written about in the local paper. And anyway, where will you tell your mother you’re going every evening?’
Alice hadn’t thought about this aspect of the whole performance yet, but as soon as Mr Jenkins said it she knew he was right. She finished drying the cups and went home and found Clarice in the garden, sitting under the apple tree drinking tea out of her china cup, set neatly back in its saucer after every sip.
Alice stood over her mother and said it all as quickly as she could. ‘I have something to tell you. I got a part in the village play, Romeo and Juliet. I’m playing Juliet. That’s the lead role, you know. Mr Jenkins the director says I’m a natural; he says I should go to drama school and become a proper actress. That’s where I’ve been going every afternoon, to rehearse. The opening night is on Saturday and Mr Jenkins thinks you should come.’
Clarice hadn’t betrayed any emotion during this speech, but Alice was used to that. Her mother took another sip of tea and set her cup back down. ‘Does he now,’ she said finally.
‘Well, and of course I’d like you to come as well.’
‘I’m surprised that you didn’t tell me about all of this before, Alice.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Her mother nodded at this. ‘Have you enjoyed yourself?’ Alice nodded. ‘And you think you could be an actress? On the advice of one failed actor?’
‘Failed actor?’
‘Mr Jenkins. That’s what he did in London before he came to Druith. Apparently he hardly ever worked until he accepted defeat and came to live here.’
‘Oh.’ Alice saw Mr Jenkins’s flourishes and silk handkerchiefs and clapping hands and knew Clarice was right.
‘So, you see, he probably doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’
‘Oh but—’
‘Of course I’ll come and see you though. Should I buy a ticket or something?’
Alice felt as if someone had deflated a balloon in her stomach and she was filled with stale air. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get one for you.’ She turned to walk away, but then stopped, her face flushing with the effort of staying calm. ‘It’s not just Mr Jenkins, you know, they all say I’m good. And I do love it and I think I’m quite good.’
Clarice smiled but Alice knew better than to trust it. ‘Acting isn’t a suitable profession, Alice. And besides, you’d never manage in London on your own.’
‘But will you come and watch before you decide?’
‘Of course,’ said Clarice. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
The play went as well as it could have and Mr Jenkins was right: Alice completely outshone the others, everyone told her she was wonderful and the local paper ran a picture of her on their front page underneath the unimaginative heading of ‘A Star is Born’. Not that Alice cared about any of that, she was so entranced by the sensation of stepping out on to that bright stage each night and looking into a deep, all-consuming blackness that she would have done it even if everyone hated her. The others talked of nerves and stage fright and some even took a shot of whisky before going on, but Alice couldn’t understand that. To her it felt like diving into a cool swimming pool with the sun on her back; she felt her muscles unlock and her head drain of anxiety.
The play ran for four nights, but Clarice only came once on the first night. She hadn’t come for a drink afterwards, but when Alice had arrived home she’d been sitting up in her chair by the fire and she’d said, ‘Well done, you really were very good.’
After the last show Mr Jenkins produced two bottles of champagne, which the cast used to toast each other. Alice had never drunk alcohol before but she found it prolonged the floating, buzzing sensation she had so enjoyed on stage. After one glass she said her goodbyes and set off, but Mr Jenkins ran after her and took her arm and made her promise to come and see him the next day so he could tell her which drama schools to apply for and even help her make the calls. She promised that she would, her mother’s words of encouragement ringing in her ears.
Clarice was in bed when she got home and so she made herself a sandwich and took it upstairs with her, where she spent the night dreaming about larger and larger stages and a deeper and deeper blackness. She woke up happier than she could ever remember feeling and tripped down to breakfast. Clarice was already sitting at the head of the table, buttering her toast.
‘Morning, Alice.’
‘Morning, Clarice.’
Alice set to work on her own toast, her legs itching to get to Mr Jenkins.
‘So, now that’s over then,’ said Clarice, her gaze resting over Alice’s head and travelling into the garden where Peter, the gardener, was already working.
‘What’s over?’
‘Your little play.’
‘Oh, well, yes.’
‘I got you this.’ Clarice slid a white sheet of paper over the table to Alice. It looked like an application form and for a moment Alice’s heart contracted with the unexpectedness of life. Before this minute everything had been over in such short fleeting moments of time, tiny seconds which amounted to nothing, but here was a chance to live a life she understood. She joined the letters on the paper in front of her and saw the words ‘Cartertown Secretarial College, Diploma in Typing’.
‘But …’ she started.
‘I think it’s for the best, don’t you?’ said Clarice and she really was smiling. She wasn’t some wicked witch in a fairy tale, she genuinely believed that this was the best thing Alice could do. Alice saw all of that, she knew it and yet she also knew that she was wrong, wrong beyond measure. She opened her mouth to speak, but found that she wasn’t in possession of the right words to make her mother understand any of this. ‘I think we both know that being
an actress is a bit of fantasy for someone like you. Not that you weren’t brilliant, Alice, but it’s such a tough world and you are so, so delicate. You would be gobbled up in a day by all those people. They run a summer course, it starts in three weeks.’ Alice nodded, tears blocking her throat. ‘And there’ll be other village-hall productions. Mr Jenkins isn’t going anywhere.’
And nor am I, thought Alice, as she took her pen and started to fill in her details.
Cartertown College of Further Education was as terrible as Alice had feared. None of the other girls spoke to her, as girls had never done. She knew that everything about her was wrong: she didn’t listen to pop music or wear make-up or giggle about boys and, worst of all, she knew she was extremely pretty. She wasn’t being big-headed; in fact if she’d had the choice she would have been plain: plain meant you could keep your head down and men didn’t stare and women didn’t sneer. Pretty was, in essence, nothing more than a genetic coincidence that had arranged itself in a pleasing way, which was totally baffling when you thought about it. Alice after all had the same features as everyone else and yet they appeared so much more appealing on her.
The time passed as slowly as she’d ever known it. She read books written hundreds of years ago on the hour-long bus journey to and from Cartertown every day, she failed to place her fingers on the right keys in class and ate her lunch alone in a corner of the cafeteria. But it was only a twelve-week course and so she told her mother it was fine and devised plans about how she could get a secretarial job in London when it was over and pay her own way through drama school.
Then she met Tony. She left college at the same time every day, knowing that if she kept up a good pace she would make the 4.10 bus. She crossed the road in the same place as usual and just as she was about to step up onto the kerb, a heavy foot landed right in front of her, nearly tripping her up. She turned her head upwards and he was smiling down at her, his long hair blowing across his face. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said, ‘I was just stubbing out my fag and you came out of nowhere.’ He laughed.
She opened her mouth to speak but no words seemed adequate.
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