Colouring In

by Angela Huth

  I went back to the kitchen table with a cup of tea and began to open my post. Nothing interesting. I was half hoping for a word from the children – but no. Only circulars, the gas bill and an official looking communication from the police. Seems they want me to go along to an identity parade at my convenience. I’ll have to let them know that my convenience won’t be for a while.

  I decided that when I’d finished my tea – and Mrs G, bless her, had put in a box of very top of the range ginger biscuits – I’d unpack my bag, get out the hoover, take things slowly. I looked through the envelopes again to make sure I’d missed nothing before throwing them away. I suppose I’d been hoping for some word from Yarmouth: but that was a foolish hope.

  ‘You’re very lucky, Gwen,’ I said to myself. ‘You could have been really badly injured, or even dead. So count your blessings, take a grip. Next week, perhaps, think about getting out a bit. Ring your old friend Sheila, start going to Bingo again. Maybe the mugging was a message from above to say live a little, Gwen: don’t get stuck in a rut.’

  Maybe, I thought, I would sum up the courage to go to the pub one evening, just have a quiet gin and orange, look at the people, come home. Maybe I’ll do that once the identity parade is over.

  Maybe I will.

  CARLOTTA

  Yesterday afternoon I went round to number 18. I was fed up with being so out of touch with Dan and Isabel.

  ‘Oh yes, Dan told me you’d rung and would probably come round,’ Isabel said.

  With a funny sort of look, I thought. As if she wasn’t entirely au fait with the idea of my ringing her husband. But maybe, in my rather odd current state, I was imagining that.

  Dan had taken Sylvie off to see her grandmother – relief! So it was just Isabel and me. She’d just come from taking Gwen back to her flat. Gwen’d been in the house for over a week – pretty noble of the Grants, that. Not a word of grumbling from the saintly Isabel, of course, but I bet it drove her barmy, having to do the housework before getting down to work. She made us tea and talked for a very long time about Gwen. Described her flat in minute detail – I could imagine, for heaven’s sake. She didn’t seem to notice my lack of interest. On and on she went. I fear Isabel has a tremendous penchant for those less fortunate than herself, but God she can bore on about them. I sat at my usual place at the kitchen table listening. I wanted to scream at her to shut up. But I just went on listening. I could feel the mock interest setting hard across my face.

  When at last – at last – she stopped droning on about Gwen, she turned to Bert. What on earth did I think he was doing in Norfolk? She said she’d had a long talk to him on the telephone – this piece of information she delivered, I thought, with an air of gleeful superiority. She had been in touch with him, was her triumph. Not for anything would I have told her I’d had a long talk, too. Did he ring you, then? I asked. I couldn’t resist that. There was a long pause. Then Isabel – as if she’d been undecided how to play the truth – admitted that it had been her who had rung. I gave her a huge smile and said how lucky she was to have Bert as such a close friend. She blushed a little, I swear. Perhaps she has a secret fancy – but no. Never. She’s dottily, quite boringly in love with Dan. She went on to ask how Bert’s house was getting on. It was my turn to bore her.

  I wished like anything that Dan and Sylvie – yes, for once, Sylvie – would come back. But they didn’t. Isabel and I eked out conversation, oddly, awkwardly. It was as if there was suddenly no longer anything to talk about. All the old ease had gone. A kind of mistrust, or suspicion, had risen between us. Why? How? Surely, surely Dan hadn’t said anything, despite his stupid belief that you should tell a spouse everything. But I don’t think it could have been that: he was so agitated about my not saying a word – hardly likely he’d do so himself. So I don’t know what’s happened. A sort of horrible gap has opened up between Isabel and me, after so many years of easy friendship. Perhaps our lives and interests have diverged so far there’s nothing but the past left to bind us anymore.

  Isabel pressed me to wait till the others got back, stay for supper. But I said no. I was really depressed by the hour we had together, and longed to get out of the house – the house in which I’d had so many good times, knew as well as my own. But I didn’t want to go home for a Sunday evening on my own, yoghurt in front of the television. So I decided to go round to Bert’s, see how things were progressing.

  There, I cheered up. The builders had done brilliantly. They must be the only builders in London who actually get ahead of their schedule. I wandered from room to room, marvelling at the transformation. Surely Bert would be pleased. What’s more, though there were still a few minor things to do, and curtains to be put up, any time he wanted to come back from Norfolk he could move in. I’d ring him tomorrow, let him know.

  In the sitting room I threw back a dustsheet from the sofa and sat down. I calculated I’d only need to take one whole day off work to get everything finalised for Bert, then there’d be all the fun of seeing his amazed face. I rather look forward to that. I’ll make sure there’s a bottle of Veuve Cliquot – I think that’s his favourite – in the fridge.

  I sat back in the sofa and found myself thinking how nice it would be to live here, rather than my flat. How nice it would be, actually, to live here with Bert. I don’t know how I’ve come round to thinking any such thing, having been so determined I wanted him only as a friend, but I have. Necessity, perhaps. There’s not much choice around. But no, it’s not that. I’m intrigued by Bert’s capriciousness, his odd charm, his determination to keep his distance, his strength. God, there aren’t many men who could have resisted, with such dignity, my foolish strip tease, and then had the charity not to berate me. So, yes, in an ideal world Bert and I…

  But I’m not blind. I know damn well when something isn’t reciprocated. To him I’m nothing more than a friend and useful decorator. He needs me only for getting his house done. Once he’s seen it, and said thank you, that will be that. Oh, he might ask me out occasionally. We might do a few things à quatre with Dan and Isabel. But I know I’m not in his calculations, and never will be.

  I also know I’m suddenly fed up with London, my job here, my life. The feeling that’s been creeping up on me exploded, surprisingly, in Bert’s half-done sitting-room. I’m nearly thirty-seven. I want something to happen. So: I’m going to make it. I’m going to leave London, go to New York. I’ve lots of friends there. With my qualifications I’ll have no trouble finding a job. I’ll get an apartment in the Village, go and stay with the Haileys at their house in the Hamptons. Suddenly, I can see it all.

  The gloom of two hours ago vanished. I’d hand in my notice in the next few days – they’ll let me go in three months, I reckon. Then, a new life.

  The excitement was immense. I decided not to tell Isabel, Dan or Bert. Or anyone, just yet.

  DAN

  Dejection – utter dejection, these last few days. Nothing to write, no ideas. A feeling of hopelessness, of loss, of wandering in a wilderness in which there are no signs. When you’re not working at something you love doing, there’s a pointlessness in life. I didn’t tell anyone – not even Isabel. I went to my study each evening as usual, read other peoples’ plays – Tartuffe, Betrayal, Cymbeline, Jumpers. They were meant to inspire, but they just depressed me. Perhaps I should recognise the fact that writing a play is out of my reach: but I can’t. I can’t stop believing in possibility.

  One morning a few days after Gwen had left, after I’d dropped Sylvie at school, I drove to Holland Park and went for a walk. My rather dotty old father-in-law was always on about walks being a cure for almost everything. In his case, except for moments of acute vagueness combined with some rum ideas, that did indeed seem to be so. I fell to thinking about him as I hurried along the paths, still empty at this time of the morning. He was a man of great tenacity. I remember the instance of the fountain. He was determined he should build it with no help, though he knew nothing of drainage or water design, or e
ven how to stick stones together. But he stuck at it. Over two years of work, it took him, making mistakes and then having to re-build. I think all of us gently scoffed at him at the time. But he took no notice, kept at it for hours every day. And in the end he achieved it – an amazingly handsome fountain admired by all. He was so pleased with himself, the evening of its ‘opening’ as he called it. We all stood around drinking pink champagne, congratulating him. I’ve never seen him so happy. It’s a good feeling when you overcome difficulties, I remember him saying in his very long launching speech. He hadn’t had the opportunity to make a speech for years, and was making the most of it, though his voice was barely audible against the tinkling jets of water he had so painstakingly designed to arch before they fell. But then, later, I saw doubts rush in. The long job accomplished, what now? What now? he whispered to me. I know how he felt, though I’m still waiting for something equivalent to his fountain.

  It was a cool morning in Holland Park: leaves beginning to turn, intimations of autumn, my favourite season. Having walked so fast I was out of breath. I sat on a bench to watch the peacocks strutting on the grass, trailing their trains of iridescent greens and blues and aquamarines, the colours of Turkish seas, and the shot silks I once bought Isabel in China. They had a snobbish, proprietorial look that made me smile. Should I deign to approach their territory, I felt, they would make known their disapproval in some alarming way. Already they were squawking their warning in horrible voices, ill-matched to their magnificent feathers that seemed to come from wooden throats. One of them raised its tail. Through half closed eyes I saw that a giant fan appeared to be approaching me with some speed. I was determined not to be intimidated, and kept my seat. The peacock came to a halt at the edge of the grass, considered me for a few moments, head on one side. Having summed up the very small potential of my threat, it turned back to join its companions.

  ‘What the hell am I doing, sitting in the park watching peacocks?’ I thought. I wished Bert was in London. Had he been here, I might have talked to him. He was always so patient with my glooms, so wise in his advice and encouragement.

  Then, from nowhere, something appeared. Where do ideas come from? That is the question writers are so persistently asked, and find hard, if not impossible, to answer. In my own case, a scrap of reality – an incident, or an overheard sentence – sometimes spark an idea. That wasn’t so this morning. There I was sitting, despairing, watching peacocks in the park when suddenly I knew without doubt what should be the subject of my next attempt. It would be something that was becoming familiar to me, and must be familiar to many others.

  I stood up, a chill down my spine and more ordinary cold across my shoulders and chest. Wished I’d worn a jumper. I hurried back to the car and was glad of its warmth.

  I knew this rising of hope, this foolish excitement, so well. I would surf the wave, buy quires of new paper, spend God knows how many hours trying – and this time, I would tell myself yet again, I really believe it could work.

  I longed to tell Isabel. But I decided not to just yet. The right moment would reveal itself. I stopped on a double yellow line to buy stacks of paper – prematurely, I know, nothing to print out just yet – But it was a positive step. I came out to find a parking ticket, and didn’t care. The stationer’s plastic bag sat beside me on the passenger seat, symbol of my new and thrilling plan.

  I was on my way, again. On my way.

  ISABEL

  Gwen gone! Huge, secret relief. Life won’t be quite back to normal till she returns to work in a day or two. But oh, to have the house to myself again. She was the most perfect, undemanding and appreciative guest, but the fact is I don’t much like visitors of any kind. On Monday morning I was up in my studio even before Dan and Sylvie had left, and began on an order for six masks which will be very late unless I go back to work in the evenings for a while, too. Well, that’s fine. Dan always disappears into his study – this play seems to be taking a particularly long time to finish. From time to time I rather like working at night, then meeting Dan for a glass of whisky and the ten o clock news. I can see that some people might think our life very dull.

  I suppose it might have been the whole thing of having Gwen here, upsetting my routine, that made me so irritable, and then so awful to Carlotta when she came round on Sunday. She will do that, appear without warning, and I hate it. I’d planned to collapse for a few hours with my book, while Dan and Sylvie were out. Her arrival put paid to that idea.

  I fear I was not just unfriendly, but sort of scoring over her, too, and getting some pleasure from it. The Bert thing: letting her know I’d had a long talk to him. She, obviously, wouldn’t ring him unless it was some work thing to do with his house. They’re not that sort of friends. I think he’s bored stiff by her pushiness.

  Anyhow, I watched her face carefully. She put up a very good show of slight interest and not caring. But I could read her: she was jealous. Why? I think I know. For all her protestations, she wouldn’t be averse to some interest or admiration from Bert. I mean, anyone can see his attraction, and she’s become used to money. So it was mean of me to goad her a bit, but in an uncharitable way I enjoyed it at the time. She was in an odd mood, anyway: huffy, edgy. Said she’d been going out a lot, was lacking sleep. God I’d hate her life. I felt bound to ask her to stay to supper, though perhaps my invitation was lacking in enthusiasm. Luckily she said no, she had a date with ‘someone.’ I didn’t give her the pleasure of asking who.

  Then, of course, when she’d gone I felt awful. I’d been mean, bitchy, behaved shamefully. After supper, when Dan was safely in his study, I rang her. Rather unsurprisingly, she was in – some quick story about the date’s airplane being held up in Paris. I know her face-saving lies, and offered sympathy. She must have known I guessed the truth.

  Anyhow, I apologised. I mean I really was sorry for being such a cow. Carlotta is dementing at times, but she has a vivacity which is infectious. Loving her is an old habit. She took all this very nicely: said she quite understood what a trial it must have been having Gwen, and how lovely for me to get back to normal. Then, after a small friendly pause, she said that, actually, she had talked to Bert in Norfolk, too.

  Yes, she, too, had rung him, but only to ask whether she could throw out his old chair. We both laughed, recognised we were quits, somehow. Carlotta’s not one to bear a grudge or maintain even the slightest hostility after a dispute: it’s one of her many qualities. I ended by saying that once Bert was back – and, as neither of us knew when that would be, we were doubly bound in ignorance – we should all have a get together here.

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said, and I knew from her voice she meant it.

  SYLVIE

  Honestly. Grownups talk about children being moody. But what about them? Ma and Pa have been so weird lately. I’m sure they think whatever it is that’s bugging them doesn’t show, but it does. Mama’s been vaguer than ever, hardly seems to hear my questions. She’s sort of on automatic pilot. She’s not bad tempered, exactly, but just distracted. I asked her what was the matter and she gave that boring old reply about there weren’t enough hours in the day. I think that secretly she found having poor Gwen to stay was a bit difficult. I mean looking after her, and the housework and everything on top of her masks. I see that was difficult, but not that difficult.

  As for Papa, I don’t know. I suppose it’s something to do with his play, which he seems to have been at forever. But he never talks about it and I don’t like to ask. I just wait for the day when it will all work for him and we’ll all be going off in a limo to the first night and everything. No one’s come round for ages. Every evening it’s the same: just the three of us for supper, subdued, each of us caught up in our own thoughts, I suppose, and not bothering to make much of an effort. Boring.

  What I actually think is that perhaps the rentals are having a mid-life crisis. Elli says that’s what’s happening to her parents, especially her father. She heard him saying to someone he thought his pulli
ng power was on the wane – I mean, like, who could bear to be pulled by Elli’s father? Fat and bald. Horror. Anyhow he’s taken up jogging. We saw him once on the way to school. In shorts – shorts! Even Papa, who never says anything mean about anyone, thought it was a pretty gross sight. I didn’t tell Elli we saw him. She would have died.

  As for her mother, her mid-life crisis apparently means she spends even more money on facials and Pilates and having her hair blonded and aromatherapy and all that rubbish. Elli says it’s embarrassing how much time and money she spends on herself these days. She now only actually works in the mornings but is still on the telephone all the time. And what for? That’s what we both wonder. We had a long talk about it all the other day – Elli was in tears because her mother had mentioned having a face-lift, which Elli thought would be completely awful. I tried to cheer her up. We got pretty serious about what it must be like being grown-up: we tried to imagine being forty something, and we ended up saying what we really hoped was that we wouldn’t be so vain. We made a promise that if ever one of us saw the other starting to do daft vain things, we’d say something. We’re determined to keep that promise. Though I do sometimes wonder if Elli and I will still be friends in thirty years’ time.

  GWEN

  Back to work, thank the Lord, and pretty much my old self. I feel much better. My face is almost its normal colour and I’m full of modest plans. I think the whole incident must have given me a jolt.