by Adele Geras
The last time I saw Constance, Lou thought, I really let her have it, but she’d brought it on herself. It wasn’t anything unusual. Lou had been asked down to Milthorpe to show Poppy off to her greatgrandmother, and she’d been pleased to oblige. She’d thought the baby would offer some protection from Constance’s sharp tongue but not a bit of it. I’d have thought that for the sake of the child, you’d have made peace with her father … so important for a child to have a father … grow up wild without one, you know … Any possibility of a reconciliation? You’re very young, you know … How old are you? Only twenty-three? A mere infant yourself. You should grow up and realize that life can’t be a bed of roses all the time, dear …
And I answered quite politely at first, too, Lou remembered. Tried to explain what it was like to live with being on guard all the time, every minute. What it was like to be always waiting for the next blow to fall, the next overwhelming fury that came out of nowhere and made straight for her. How she’d found she couldn’t stay with him once she discovered she was pregnant. He was a man who didn’t see anything wrong with using his fists when he felt like it, and no child of hers was going to be exposed to someone like that. But how hard it had been to leave him for ever, in spite of the way he behaved. How awful it was to live somewhere that was too small and where she also had to try and do her work. How sad it was to be alone, but frightened of meeting anyone new. How crippling it was to be anxious and panic-stricken at the very thought of someone kissing you. Above all, how daunting it was to be responsible for a vulnerable creature she barely understood. She’d tried to convey what her life was like, and then back Constance had come with are you sure you hadn’t done anything to provoke him, dear? Some men are very jealous at the thought of a child and we have to understand that, don’t we?
She’d lost it altogether at that point. Sobbed, yelled at Constance, called her names, told her she had as much understanding of anything as a shrivelled old onion and stormed out, banging the door behind her and shouting that Constance was wicked and had no feelings that a proper grandmother would have. She didn’t regret making a scene. She should have told her grandmother years and years ago that she was on to her, that she realized Constance didn’t love her; quite the reverse. Constance would have denied it, of course. She was good at lying and she’d have trotted out the blood-is-thicker-than-water clichés. But it was true. Constance hated Grandad and me being so close. She knew there was stuff we talked about that he wouldn’t have discussed with anyone else, least of all with her. She was just plain jealous.
A man Lou didn’t recognize came into the room, and Dad coughed to stop everyone talking. He was very pale and there was a tremor in his voice as he spoke.
‘Everyone, this is Andrew Reynolds. He works for Reynolds and Johnson, solicitors. He’s got something to say, I’m afraid.’
Afraid? What did that mean? Justin looked bemused. Lou saw Nessa glancing at him with the slightest shrug of her shoulders as if to say I’ve no idea what this is about either. The man, who was gingery and skinny, was holding a large folder. He coughed, clearly embarrassed, and his face went red.
‘I was instructed by Constance Barrington shortly before she died to draw up a new will—’
‘What on earth—?’ Justin interrupted him and Lou saw her father put a hand on his arm to shut him up. Justin looked like someone from a Calvin Klein perfume ad and reckoned that, because of his appearance, he could do exactly what he wanted, when he wanted. He’d been like that ever since Lou could remember, relying on his charm and looks to achieve his ambitions. The strategy had seemed to be working quite well so far.
‘I know Matthew’ – Andrew Reynolds nodded at her father – ‘is his mother’s executor and had been in charge of her legal affairs. There is a will, dated May the eleventh, 2003, drawn up by him shortly after the death of Mrs Barrington’s husband, John, but I was called in to see her only two weeks ago, very shortly before her unfortunate death.’
The silence was so thick you could almost feel it in the room. Lou wondered whether it was the waves of a still-stormy sea she could hear, or simply a roaring in her ears. Mr Reynolds went on, ‘This document is very brief. There’s a great deal of the usual thing – being of sound mind, making all other wills invalid, etc., etc., but the actual bequests are very swiftly dealt with. I’ll read them at once.’ He coughed. ‘I took this down at Mrs Barrington’s dictation, you understand. And the will is witnessed by the two nurses who were looking after Mrs Barrington at the time of her death:
‘This is my last will and testament. The will I made when my husband died is superseded by this one. I know what I’m doing and have not been influenced by anyone. This is what I wish to leave to my son and my grandchildren and others after my death. To my son, who owns his home outright and has control of the law firm Barrington and Son, I will not burden you with looking after a house you’ve never really liked and endless trouble with the taxman. Milthorpe House and the lands attached to it I am bequeathing to Justin Barrington, who is young enough to benefit from it for a very long time to come, even after taxes have been paid. To his sister, Vanessa née Barrington, now Williams, I leave half of my estate. The other half I leave to my only son, Matthew. This includes stocks, shares and so forth and I calculate that each of you will come away with a fairly substantial sum, again even allowing for the present crippling rates of taxation. To Eleanor della Costa, who has been like a daughter to me, I leave any of my clothes which take her fancy, and all my jewellery, which she has admired for years. She will wear it with style. To my granddaughter Louise, I leave the copyright in my late husband’s books. To my daughter-in-law, Phyllida, I leave my collection of china and glass …’
Mr Reynolds went on speaking, but Lou heard nothing. The roaring in her ears had subsided. She was sharply aware, as one is in a dream, of everyone looking at her, staring at her. Nessa had a hand over her mouth. She would just be coming to terms with the fact that Justin had done much better out of this than she … no surprise there. Constance had been besotted with him since childhood. Justin was managing to look gleeful and horrified at the same time. Dad’s face was chalk-white and Mum was holding his hand. Ellie’s mouth was open. Lou thought: Copyright in Grandad’s books … they’d been out of print for decades. They were worthless. Constance had disinherited her, and Lou could almost feel her grandmother’s malevolent presence in the room. I’ve won, she’d be saying, from that special hell reserved for the unkind, the jealous, the unforgiving, the endlessly resentful. I’ve punished you for years of not loving me. I’ve given everything to Ellie’s children. She was closer to me than your father, or you, or anyone related to me by blood. Serves you right.
When the solicitor left the room, after what seemed like a very long time, everyone started talking at once.
‘I’ll fight it, Lou,’ her father said. ‘She must have gone mad. I’m sure that …’
‘Oh, my poor child!’ That was Ellie.
‘I don’t know what to say …’ Nessa sounded tearful.
Lou heard her mother’s voice cutting through the babble.
‘What’s the matter with all of you? Don’t you understand what’s happened here? I don’t believe it … I simply cannot credit it … It’s monstrous. The copyright to books that have been out of print for years and that no one wanted to read when they were in print … can you imagine a more worthless thing? It’s deliberate. She’s thought about this carefully. She’s punishing my daughter from beyond the grave. It’s a wicked thing to do! Quite wicked!’
And Lou watched as her mother, who almost never spoke her mind, who was terrified of making an exhibition of herself, burst into noisy tears and sank on to the sofa.
‘Don’t cry, Mum!’ Lou ran to her side and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘But it does! It does matter. She’s putting the knife in from beyond the grave … It’s hateful and unkind. She’s saying it loud and clear, Lou … can’t you hear? You loved
him while he was alive, didn’t you? Well, here are his books and you’re welcome to them. No one else wants them.’
‘Never mind, Mum. Honestly.’ Lou stared at them, her family, all talking, all tut-tutting and shaking their heads. Suddenly, she had a longing to be somewhere else. To be with Poppy in the grotty flat. Anywhere but here, in Milthorpe House.
‘I’m going home now, I think,’ she told her mother. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
‘Let me drive you to the station, darling.’ Phyl wiped her eyes, and sat up straighter. She stood up and gave Lou her hand. For the first time that day, Lou felt as though she wanted to lie down and cry for ever. She nodded, unable to say a word.
*
‘I thought you might need cheering up, that’s all,’ said Ellie, sitting down at the kitchen table. ‘You stormed out of the drawing room looking like thunder. Anyone could see you were about to explode or something.’
Nessa went on washing up, taking care to rinse every single plate and cup and teaspoon in hot water. It never failed to amaze her how quickly the dishes mounted up whenever more than two people got together. Who’d used all this stuff? And when? She didn’t bother to turn round to face her mother.
‘I don’t need cheering up. It’s too late for anger.’
‘Doesn’t stop you from feeling like hell, though, does it?’
Nessa decided that how she felt was none of her mother’s business. She’d forfeited the right to be involved when she’d handed over responsibility for her children to a husband she’d tired of almost before the honeymoon was over, and then later to his boring new wife. Nessa made an effort not to think along these particular lines now. It wasn’t an appropriate time to go into every single grudge she held against Ellie. There were many of them and just at this moment Nessa was too furious with Constance to be able to attend properly to her mother’s failings. And she could certainly do without this belated effort at cheering her up. She changed the subject, ‘This is the only house I know which doesn’t have a dishwasher. It’s quite relaxing really, all these suds and hot water.’
‘You don’t look relaxed, darling. I can see the knots of tension in your neck from here.’
‘It’s Justin’s neck you ought to worry about. I could strangle him.’ Why am I saying this? Nessa asked herself. I don’t want to sound off to Ellie. God, I wish Mickey was here. She ought to have come to the funeral with me instead of Gareth.
Michaela Crawford was her best friend. They’d met ten years ago when Mickey was working for the florist who dealt with Nessa and Gareth’s wedding. In those days, Nessa worked part-time in a bank and was going mad with boredom. When Mickey confided her ambition to start a business selling artificial flowers, it was Nessa who suggested that she might be able to help with the business side of things. Together they set up a company called Paper Roses, which had been a bit of a struggle at first but was doing very well now. They provided artificial flowers of every variety for businesses, for town dwellers who didn’t have a garden, and for anyone who loved flowers but didn’t have the money to keep forking out for fresh ones. She was the business expert and Mickey the creative brain, and for the last five years Nessa had known that there was someone in her corner. Someone who’d support her whatever she did. Gareth was always, typically, mouthing off about Mickey’s lesbianism, but Nessa couldn’t have cared less about that. She’d never talked to Mickey about her sex life. Her friend never discussed it and Nessa would have died rather than ask about it. Mickey’s lover, Dee, used to live with her in the small and pretty house outside Haywards Heath which was also the Paper Roses HQ, but Dee had gone off with a Jamaican bikini designer and, for a while, Mickey was heartbroken. Nessa consoled her as best she could, but privately thought she’d had a narrow escape. Dee had always struck her as frivolous and selfish, happy to live off Mickey without contributing too much to the relationship. It didn’t surprise Nessa in the least to discover that Dee was unfaithful: she’d even flirted with her a couple of times, and she was married. Good riddance to her, Nessa had thought.
Ellie had fallen silent. She screwed a cigarette into a long, black holder and lit it. Was it worth telling her to go outside? Probably not. As Nessa thought of Gareth, a vision of his round pink face and chubby hands came into her mind and produced a wave of irritation. Even here in the kitchen, she thought, she could hear his voice booming away in the drawing room. What was the matter with her? What kind of wife was she? Gareth was cheerful. Pleasant. When they’d first met, she’d loved his jolliness, his bluff, ex-rugby player’s easy manners. She had fancied him rotten then and he was good company: generous and outgoing. He worked for an insurance company, and although Nessa was never quite sure what it was he actually did, he was obviously quite successful at it. Now he was stockier and a lot less fun. She couldn’t really pin down what it was that annoyed her lately whenever she looked at her husband, but she was painfully aware that her misgivings were making sex – okay, not awful, but a hell of a lot less enjoyable than it used to be. She simply didn’t find him as attractive as she used to. Perhaps that was normal when you’d been married for ten years. And there was Tamsin. She would always be grateful to Gareth for their daughter, whom she loved more than anything else in the world. The way she felt about Tamsin from the moment she was born made it even harder for Nessa to understand Ellie’s lackadaisical attitude to her and Justin.
She thought, blushing and hoping that her mother couldn’t see her, of the fantasies she’d trained herself to conjure up the moment she felt Gareth’s hand slide over to her side of the bed and rest on herthigh. Nowadays, when he touched her, she closed her eyes and summoned up stuff she tried hard to keep out of her head once daylight came. Things which … Never mind. Just the memory of them made her shiver a little with remembered pleasure. Nessa shook herself to clear her head.
Concentrate on Justin, she told herself. That was what was making her angry. She said to Ellie, ‘Why the hell didn’t Constance sell the property and divide the proceeds? Why on earth should Justin get all this?’ She waved a hand in the air to indicate Milthorpe House and everything that went with it.
‘You heard that ginger lawyer. She thought, quite rightly, that you were taken care of already. You’ve got a husband who makes lots of money, a super house, a business which is doing better and better. What more could you possibly want? You’d never live here, would you? Count yourself lucky to be getting half the estate. It’ll be a lot of money, you know. Much more than most people see in a lifetime.’
‘That’s beside the point!’ Nessa was almost crying at the injustice of it. ‘Just because Justin hasn’t done anything with his life and is wasting his days showing people round grotty flats he gets rewarded with a property that must be worth over two million. Not fair. I hate things that aren’t fair.’
‘Oh, God, Nessa, you’re always so hard done by!’ Ellie laughed and leaned back in the kitchen chair.
‘I am fucking hard done by—’
‘Language, darling!’
‘… and I always have been. First of all, my mother ups and dumps me with a husband she’s obviously totally bored with – and then his wife. What on earth possessed you, Ellie? I can’t even call you Mummy, can I? You’ve never been a mother. Not to me and not to Justin either. And just think: we always called Phyl and Matt by their names and not Mummy and Daddy. From the very beginning, because Matt felt we should remember our real parents, at least notionally. What that means is I’ve never had anyone I can call Mummy. Or Daddy.’
‘Well, heavens, Nessa, I’m sorry really, but change the record, sweetheart. We’ve been through this before, haven’t we? Don’t you think it’s time to let it drop? I wasn’t cut out to be a mother, that’s all. I don’t do little kids – you’re okay now of course. You’ve turned out very pretty and I’m proud of how well you’ve managed with Paper Roses and so on, but back then, well – I won’t hide it from you, there’s no point – I couldn’t wait to leave. In spite of Constance loving me like a daught
er, and in spite of Matt’s devotion, before he realized my attention was fixed on something else. Paolo was a ticket out, that’s all.’
‘And Constance was there to pick up the pieces. D’you know, I think you were the only person she really, really loved. I’ve often wondered why that should be, but she was a law unto herself, right? Maybe she’d been disappointed in Matt for some reason, I don’t know. But she saw her chance with us. I reckon she encouraged you to go off with Paolo because she wanted total control of me and Justin. She wanted us to be her children. Partly because we were yours and she loved you but partly because, well, she seemed to like us, in those days anyway. You were too old. She could start over with us.’
‘She adored you and Justin. She told me so often. I was quite happy about leaving you because I knew, I just knew, that she’d look after you and make sure Phyl and Matt didn’t squash the life out of you.’
Nessa said nothing. It was true that her grandmother had taken good care of them both, her and Justin. They’d never wanted for a single thing, but at nine years old, she’d felt unloved, and still did sometimes. Her mother had chosen to go and leave her behind, so it followed, didn’t it (that was the way the young Nessa had explained it to herself), that she wasn’t really lovable. Nothing anyone had said or done in the years since then had altered this view; not really, not deep down. Deep down she wasn’t worth loving. She wasn’t worth staying with, and she worried often about what would happen if her world were to be blown apart by something. She was aware, more than anyone she’d ever met, and much more than Justin, of the precariousness of everything; the fragility of so much that most people thought of as solid and fixed. She’d tried to discuss this with Gareth early in their relationship, but he was almost allergic to any kind of serious talk and had seemed so genuinely puzzled when she’d brought the subject up that she’d dropped it at once.