Striking a Balance

by Curtis, Norma

  Striking a Balance

  Norma Curtis

  © Norma Curtis 2014

  Norma Curtis has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 1996 by HarperCollins Publishers

  This edition published 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd

  To Elaine

  And for Joe, with love

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE - One’s Sorrow

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  PART TWO - Two’s Mirth

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  PART THREE - Three’s a Wedding

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  PART FOUR - Four’s a Birth

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  PART FIVE - Five’s a Christening

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  PART SIX - Six a Dearth

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  PART SEVEN - Seven’s Heaven

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  PART EIGHT - Eight is Hell

  44

  45

  PART NINE - And Nine’s the Devil His Ane Sel’

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  Extract from Living It Up, Living It Down by Norma Curtis

  One’s sorrow, two’s mirth,

  Three’s a wedding, four’s a birth

  Five’s a christening, six a dearth.

  Seven’s heaven, eight is hell,

  And nine’s the devil his ane sel’.

  (Old Scots Rhyme)

  PART ONE - One’s Sorrow

  1

  In the egg a charred soldier leaned helplessly, dripping yolk.

  Megan stood in the kitchen doorway with a white towel round her shoulders and her wet blonde hair plastered to her head, staring at the debris. She watched the small yellow globules pool on the tablecloth as she towel-dried her hair absently. On a Monday morning, faced with work or an eggy cloth, work won hands down.

  ‘If the kitchen is the heart of the home,’ she said, ‘how come ours always looks as if it’s suffering cardiac arrest?’

  Ruth, the nanny, looked up from her egg and flicked her fair hair out of her eyes. Bill, almost four, looked up too, just for a moment, and then went back to playing with his banana skin.

  Megan stared at him and adjusted the tie belt of her white bathrobe. Banana skins, she thought... it might be some sign of latent creativity... on the other hand, there was the oxidised banana on the tablecloth to consider. Who needed a creative child anyway? ‘Bill — in the bin,’ she said. ‘Any coffee left, Ruth?’

  Ruth sighed and Megan felt the full force of the nanny’s reproachful dark eyes. Ruth had met the nanny of somebody from The Bill and didn’t let them forget she could aspire to greater things. ‘These eggs aren’t free-range,’ Ruth said, touching the toasted soldier gingerly. ‘And there’s a speck of blood in mine. It’s a foetus.’

  Megan was reaching out to feel the pot, and, distracted, she burned her palm on the silver. She shook her hand violently and the pain made her irritable. Mornings made her irritable. Irrational people made her irritable. It was going to be a good day. What do you think eggs are? They’re unborn chicks,’ she said bluntly.

  Ruth looked at her with eyes that had changed from hurt to incredulous. ‘No, they’re not. Not until they’re fertilised. And this one is.’

  Megan reached for a tea-towel and wrapped it around the handle of the coffee pot. It had a serious design flaw in that every time it was filled with hot liquid the handle became too hot to touch. ‘Well they must be free-range,’ she said. ‘Otherwise how would a battery hen manage to find a partner? Or should I say a cock?’ She was pleased with the pun. It was quite early in the day for the sense of humour to come into play. ‘Get it?’ she asked, glancing at Ruth as she poured herself a cup.

  Ruth seemed not to have heard. She was delicately taking the soldier out of the egg and laying it on her blue striped plate. With her knife she pointed to a blob of mucus. ‘Look. A potential life.’

  Megan put the pot down and leaned over her. Sure enough, she could see a small speck of blood, about the size of a pin-head, embedded in the albumen on the toast. ‘You’re right,’ she said, to show some solidarity, but as she looked at it she began to wonder if in fact it was nothing more than a burned crumb. ‘Give me the knife,’ she said. ‘I didn’t read James Herriot for nothing.’

  Ruth looked at her suspiciously, very touchy about her Yorkshire roots. She handed it over and Megan touched the dark speck with the tip of the blade. It seemed to attach itself to the steel for a moment, stretching viscously between toast and knife-edge before snapping back into an opaque blob. Megan shook the knife, picked up the toast and flung it into the bin, disguising a shudder. ‘There,’ she said brightly. ‘Shall I put another one on for you?’

  ‘I’m never eating an egg ever again,’ Ruth said with a fastidious shiver. She put her knife down. ‘It’s disgusting. The whole concept of eggs is disgusting.’

  ‘You shouldn’t look so closely at things,’ Megan said. ‘You said that eating factory farmed chicken will make boys grow breasts; well I’ve been eating chicken far longer than Bill and —’ yes, well, she supposed there was no need to labour the point. She glanced at the clock. ‘I’ll take my coffee up with me — I’m going to dry my hair.’ She picked up her cup and turned suddenly. ‘Isn’t Larry down yet?’

  ‘He’s outside, opening the roof of the car.’

  The convertible was Larry’s new toy, a company car that had come two months previously with his new job at the advertising agency of Burgess McLane. Larry had bought them all matching Raybans to wear in it. It made them look like a family firm of gangsters. Ruth always complained it was cold in the back and she and Bill fought over the travel rug.

  Megan grinned; they never showed that in the commercials. ‘It’s not that warm, is it?’ she asked, her blue cup rattling in its saucer as she opened the outside door. She was right, it wasn’t that warm. The morning air was sharp and fresh, and the sky a faded, cloudless blue. She curled her bare feet on the cold step. She could just see Larry sitting in his car, stretching towards the passenger seat, feeling for his sunglasses in the glove compartment. He straightened up and when he saw Megan he put them on and grinned at her.

  ‘What do you think?’ he called.

  Megan leaned against the doorframe and sipped her coffee, looking at him over the rim of the cup. In his suit and with his short dark hair still wet from the shower, he could have been anyone: a gangster or a film star or a tycoon or a thief. A man of many roles, was Larry.

  She’d wondered why his parents had welcomed her with such enthusiasm — could have been, of course, her looks and wit, that sort of thing, but his mother had spilled the beans over a large gin and tonic one evening. ‘Megan,’— patting her knee — ‘we love you because you’re sensible.’

  What a reference that was. Fortunately the gin and tonic hadn’t been so strong that she’d said it in front of Larry. Still, Megan had never forgiven her for
making her sound more like Larry’s caretaker than his wife.

  She put the cup back in the saucer, and didn’t smile. ‘What do I think?’ she said, repeating his words. ‘What do you think I think?’

  She watched him grin, and she grinned back, suddenly amused, partly because he was so easily pleased with her noncommittal answer and partly because she could tell from the angle of the rear-view mirror that Larry wasn’t only practising his grin on her but on himself also. And really, he had reason to be vain. He was good-looking and he smiled a lot, a rare combination in a man. His only obvious flaw was a scar dissecting his eyebrow which he complained looked like morse code.

  A small breeze gusted, chilling her damp hair and shaking the white blossom from the tree above the drive. She gave a shiver and watched the blossom fall in his hair and flutter on the dashboard and across the leather seats. A petal floated in the coffee that was left at the bottom of her cup.

  ‘I’d better get dressed,’ she said reluctantly and as she went inside she heard the car door slam and Larry came in after her.

  Ruth didn’t look up. She was now concentrating on the list of ingredients on the back of a packet of rice cakes.

  ‘Any coffee left?’ Larry asked her.

  No reply.

  ‘He needs it to warm his hands on,’ Megan said, to fill the gap of her silence.

  ‘My hands are warm enough,’ Larry said, leering and reaching for the neck of her bathrobe.

  Megan swatted him and side-stepped. Ruth’s presence loomed darkly and her deepening frown couldn’t, could it, be blamed on the rice cakes?

  ‘Great body swerve,’ Larry said appreciatively, reaching for the pot. He, too, burned his fingers on the handle. Using a napkin to hold it, he poured himself a cup and then bent down to retrieve Bill from under the table where he was humming to himself. He still had the banana skins in his hands but they were turning black from too many battles. ‘What are you up to today, little soldier?’ Larry asked him over-loudly, in his speaking-to-children voice.

  Bill appealed to Ruth to save him. ‘Going with Zoofie,’he said, squirming out of his father’s arms.

  ‘Good man,’ Larry said, giving up the struggle and putting him down.

  So much for male bonding, Megan thought, watching Bill crawl under the table again. The bare pink soles of his feet stuck out from under the cloth. What was he doing under there? She ducked under the table to find out. In the dark yellow tent of the cloth he looked up at her, surprised.

  She felt like a gatecrasher. ‘Oh, Bill, it’s nice under here,’ she said encouragingly, keeping her head low. ‘Is it a tent?’

  ‘No, it’s a table,’ he said, and after a moment’s thought he gave her a banana skin.

  ‘Thanks.’ She looked at it for a moment and resisted the urge to fling it in the bin. It felt leathery and smelled nauseatingly ripe. Bill glanced at her and apparently deciding she could be ignored, began singing again. Megan felt her knees ache against the cold floor. It was getting late and her hair was still damp. She ought to go and dry it. On the other hand, this could be one of those quality-time moments that Bill would remember all his life. Should she sing to her banana skin, too?

  She couldn’t quite catch Bill’s tune, so, compromising, she began to hum. It was quite soothing, really. What with the smell, and the colour of the tablecloth, it was like sitting in a banana milkshake. ‘Hmmm…’

  ‘Shh,’Bill said disapprovingly, clapping his hand over her mouth. ‘Better give me that,’ he added, taking the banana skin from her.

  ‘Right.’ Obviously she’d been singing the wrong tune. She looked at her banana-coated hands, sticky and dry at the same time, and held them out in front of her. ‘I’ll just go and dry my hair,’ she said casually, trying to make out his expression in the bilious gloom.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, without looking up.

  She backed out from under the table and straightened up, blinked and saw Ruth watching her with a superior smile on her face.

  Megan fingered the fine gold chain around her neck, slightly self-conscious in the light of Ruth’s scrutiny. ‘I suppose it’s natural, isn’t it, for children to go under tables?’ she asked diffidently. Not a sign of autism or anything?’

  ‘He wants a Wendy house. You should get him a Wendy house,’ Ruth said, all knowing. ‘He wouldn’t go under the table if he had a Wendy house to play in.’

  Ah, thought Megan; not autism but deprivation.

  She could see Ruth coming to life at the thought of shopping. Shopping was Ruth’s hobby; in fact, shopping with their money was her whole mission in life.

  Ruth was turning the packet of rice cakes on its end, acting casual. ‘I could get him one today, if you like.’ She looked up, staring Megan in the eye. ‘By the way, you can get organic rice cakes, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ Megan said. ‘At thirty-five I need all the additives and preservatives I can get.’

  Ruth had a look that said weird better than words but she didn’t use it.

  ‘They sell very good Wendy houses at John Lewis,’ Ruth went on.

  ‘Maybe for his birthday. I’ll leave it to you to check them out.’ Megan glanced at Larry, who was leaning over the news-paper, drawing a moustache onto the prime minister. ‘Hey, I haven’t read that, you know,’ she said, and tried to snatch it up, but Larry hid it protectively with his forearm.

  ‘Won’t be a minute,’ he said. Larry took his daily newspaper seriously. He bent over it a little longer, and finally put his rollerball down. Politics meant a lot to him. He sat back for a moment and rubbed his freshly shaven jaw. ‘What our prime minister needs...’there was a pause, ‘is a monocle,’ Larry said.

  *

  When Megan came back down, Ruth had disappeared and Larry was ready to leave for work. She gave him a quick kiss and snatched a piece of toast from the toaster. Bill was standing by the kitchen door, still in his pyjamas. Suddenly he turned and looked at her. ‘Work?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, ‘fraid so.’

  He ran at her suddenly and held her tightly around her legs. She felt herself knocked off balance by his passion and staggered backwards. ‘Bill,’ she said, alarmed, ‘careful!’ She grabbed the table, regained her balance and stuffed the dry toast in her mouth. She knew he was creasing her skirt, knew he probably had butter around his mouth...she looked down at him and saw she’d dropped toast crumbs on his fair hair. ‘Whoops, sorry, Bill,’ she said, brushing them off. ‘Come here.’ She lifted him to her, feeling him blissfully heavy and warm in his soft cotton night-clothes. His clutch was painful and she hugged him hard. ‘You,’ she said softly into his pale hair, ‘what am I going to do with you?’

  Ruth came back into the kitchen in a rush, her face pale with foundation. ‘I didn’t notice the time,’ she muttered, an apology disguised as an excuse.

  Megan kissed Bill’s silky hair and rested her cheek against it. ‘I’d better go,’ she said regretfully, and looked over at Ruth. ‘Has Bill had anything to eat apart from bananas?’

  Ruth glanced at the toaster. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘you’ve just eaten the toast I’d put in for him.’

  ‘Have I? Pop another one in. Can you take Bill?’

  Ruth looked irritable. ‘I haven’t finished in the bathroom yet,’ she said. Ruth had to be placated. She had an adolescent’s moodiness that at twenty she hadn’t yet grown out of. It was like permanent PMT. Some day it would become post-natal depression. And some time after that, the menopause; because there wasn’t such a thing as a bad-tempered woman, was there? Of course not. But she’d looked after Bill since he was a baby and he loved her and that was what counted. ‘Come on, Bill,’ Ruth said softly, ‘let’s wave Mum goodbye and then you can come upstairs with me.’

  Bill released his hold on her and stretched his arms out to Ruth to be comforted while his mother left.

  Megan smoothed the creases out of her jacket and watched Ruth rock him out of the corner of her eye. See? she thought, Ruth might be strange about food bu
t she did love Bill. And Bill loved her. He looked so small that morning, Megan thought. His fair hair was fanned out at the side of his head where he’d slept on it. His eyes had little pouches underneath them. He was looking very serious.

  He took after her, which was a shame, she thought; Larry’s light-heartedness was by far the easier state to be in.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said, picking up her handbag, or humbug, as Bill called it. She kissed the top of his head.

  Suddenly he seemed to fall out of Ruth’s arms into hers and he held her tightly, burying his face in her shirt. She gently rocked him, and avoided glancing at the clock on the wall.

  ‘Mummy’s got to go,’ Ruth said calmly; the voice of reason.

  Megan got the feeling the message was for her, rather than Bill. ‘Yes, I’ve got to go,’ she said regretfully, ‘I’ll see you this evening, have a good day.’ She handed him back and kissed him, feeling his forehead cool against her lips.

  Bill raised his face to hers. He had his father’s deep blue eyes. The pouches under them were more apparent than ever. She touched his cheek with her finger and kissed his little mouth. ‘I love you. See you later.’

  He nodded, resting his hand on Ruth’s neck.

  Megan could feel the small hand as though it was still resting on her. She went to the door. As she looked back his blue eyes were still on her, looking at her over Ruth’s shoulder as by now Ruth had turned away to put bread in the toaster again.

  Bill’s hand lifted briefly and rested itself on Ruth’s thin t-shirt.

  As Megan closed the door she just heard, too late, his quiet goodbye.

  2

  In a large airy apartment which overlooked one of the Thames wharves Lisa Ashridge waited for her lover by staring at the collection of photographs on the marble mantelpiece. She felt as though she’d never seen them before, which was strange, as she knew this apartment almost as well as she knew her own.

  She sat on the pewter-coloured scroll sofa and with a slightly unreal feeling looked at the framed collections of laughing people, their jollity frozen in time.