Glasshopper

by Isabel Ashdown

  “Mary and I used to be quite a pair, didn’t we, Mary?” Aunt Rachel says, as she plonks a big cherry cheesecake down on the table. “Real party animals. And that was in the days when people really knew how to party!”

  “Oh God, Rachel, don’t be daft!” cries Mum, flicking at Rachel’s wrist, as she prepares to cut into the pudding. Mum grinds her cigarette into the ashtray, then goes to the fireplace to empty it into the flames.

  “Oh, come on, Mary, we were gorgeous! D’you remember those minidresses we made – matching – and they barely covered our frilly knickers! And couldn’t we dance too? The Twist, the Monster Mash. We did them all.”

  George has his head in his hands. I can’t imagine Mum partying like that, young and lively, and without kids.

  “Cheesecake, George?” Aunt Rachel says, passing a plate over to him, winking at me. “Come on, George, eat up and I’ll tell you more about my partying days. I’ll show you my dance moves if you like.”

  George looks up at me like a condemned man, and says, “See?”

  I laugh, scooping up my last mouthful of cheesecake, all sweet and biscuity. I didn’t know if I’d like it, but it’s not even slightly cheesy. Aunt Rachel whips away my plate and serves up another huge portion, sliding it across to me without a word or a look.

  As dinner comes to an end, I can’t help staring at the photograph of Uncle Robert, hanging on the wall behind Aunt Rachel, opposite George and me. His smiling eyes look right out of the picture and follow you about the room wherever you are. It’s kind of like having his ghost in the room. I scan George’s face and I can see that he’s not at all like Uncle Robert; just like I’m not like my dad. It’s weird how it works. Even though George’s face keeps trying to be grumpy, it’s still a nice face. I’m good at faces.

  “What’re you looking at?” asks George, sounding annoyed again.

  “Nothing,” I reply, and I run my finger over my licked clean plate.

  After dinner, George disappears to his bedroom to be on his own, and the rest of us move into the living room where Aunt Rachel has built up the log fire. There’s a real Christmas tree in the corner by the huge window, covered in hundreds of tiny handmade baubles of glass and glitter. They’re nothing like the metallic plastic ones we’ve got on our small tree at home, and there’s no sparkly tinsel, but instead, strings of little iced biscuits that Aunt Rachel and Katy made together this afternoon when they knew we were coming. Ellie is lying on the grubby rug in front of the fireplace, her hairy chest rising and falling as she snores, and Aunt Rachel is opening a box of chocolates to celebrate our arrival. Mum and Aunt Rachel sprawl out on the big old leather sofas, and the rest of us sit on cushions on the floor. The After Eights go round and round, and me and Andy can’t get enough of them. Better than Dairy Milk. Andy’s stopped frowning altogether, and he and Katy seem to have hit it off. She’s foot wrestling him under the coffee table, and they both giggle as one tries to out-wriggle the other. I ask Aunt Rachel if she’s got any photos of Uncle Robert, and she fetches an album and a box of loose pictures. She looks quite young in the firelight, and she flicks through the album with lively eyes. Mum uncorks the red wine and tops up both their glasses.

  “What did Uncle Robert do?” I ask Aunt Rachel. Mum glares at me, like I’m asking a terrible question.

  “It’s alright, Mary. He was a partner in a law firm for many years. George and Katy were at boarding school in the country, and I was doing bits and pieces of charity work. But then Robert was rushed into hospital with a massive heart attack. Three years ago. Probably too many business lunches and too much stress.”

  She’s flicking through the photos as she speaks. “So, we upped sticks, moved here, and your uncle became a writer, while I looked after the animals and children. A little piece of the good life, a lot of people would call it.”

  I look at a grainy photograph of Aunt Rachel and Uncle Robert sitting outside a café on holiday in Tunisia, holding their posh cocktail drinks up to the camera, both smiling behind big sunglasses. They look happy, rich. Her skin is brown, and her hair is dark and loose. She’s like a Bond girl.

  “God!” she screams. “Look at me there! What a cracker. Didn’t know it at the time, of course. You never know what you’ve got until it’s gone.” She takes a swig from her glass of wine, pushing back her wiry, wild hair, and moves on to another photo.

  I wonder what Uncle Robert was like; I’m really impressed at the idea of having a writer for an uncle. I ask Aunt Rachel if I could see some of his books.

  “Oh, he never actually got anywhere with it, darling,” she says sadly, “but it was his dream. He really meant to do it, you know. Maybe he would have got on with it if he’d known he wouldn’t be around so long. Live for the moment, darling, because we’re dead a long time.” Aunt Rachel gathers up the photos and places them carefully back in the box. “God only knows what he did in his office all day long – because there was no sign of a novel that I could see. Perhaps we’ll find it when we’re least expecting it.”

  Mum reaches across the table and places her hand on Aunt Rachel’s.

  “You should have told me, Rachel.” Mum has tears in her eyes. I hope it’s not the drink.

  “And you should have told me, Mary,” Aunt Rachel replies, and gathering up the box of pictures, she stands, kisses Mum on the forehead and leaves the room.

  For a while, we sit there in easy silence; me, Mum, Andy and Katy, all of us staring lazily past Ellie into the crackling fireplace. Full of good food, and at home with these new people, for a short moment it feels like this living room is our whole world.

  “Bedtime,” says Mum, as she re-corks the bottle. And leaving her glass of wine half full, she takes us up to our beds on the second floor and we all settle in for our first night in Manningly Farm.

  Mary, December 1965

  As we turn into our gate we see Mummy rise and look out of the window. It’s ten past ten, and we’re late.

  “Great,” says Rachel. “She’s probably been having a seizure during the last ten minutes. Probably imagines we’ve got caught up in some Mods and Rockers skirmish on Brighton seafront.”

  “Or worse still, run off with them,” I add.

  Mummy opens the door, her face surprisingly animated. She looks over her shoulder and calls out, “See? I’m so glad we persuaded you to stay, Robert.”

  Rachel glares at me as I stifle the giggles behind my gloves. We go through into the living room, where Daddy sits with Robert, drinking whisky. Robert stands and immediately holds out his hand to Rachel.

  “Rachel. Mary. Lovely to see you both.” He’s nervous as hell, and Rachel’s expression shows that she’s pleased to see him. “I was just passing, and, well, your parents very kindly asked me in for a drink.” He smiles at Mummy and Daddy, who look delighted to have him here. “Don’t know where the evening’s gone! I’d best get out of your hair, Mrs Murray. Good grief, is that the time?”

  Responding to a meaningful look from Mummy, Daddy insists that Robert stay for another drink, and instructs us to take our coats off and join them for a glass of wine. In the hallway I nudge Rachel as we hang our coats, giving her a pout and a sexy wiggle.

  “Bugger off,” she hisses, before smoothing down her miniskirt, plumping up her hair and walking elegantly into the living room.

  Rachel is directed to sit next to Robert, with me on the sofa beside Mummy. Daddy stands with his back to the fireplace. The fire’s simmering behind the guard, reflecting pretty flickers of light in the Christmas baubles that cover the tree.

  “Rachel, did I tell you that Robert’s coming on board at Murray-Stokes?” Daddy sounds almost rehearsed.

  “No,” she says, smiling at Robert coyly. “That’s wonderful news.”

  “Well his old man says he’s got a good brain in that head of his, and we’ve been looking for a bright young thing to bring up through the ranks. Starts next week, isn’t that right, Robert?”

  Robert puts his empty glass on the side
table. “That’s right, Mr Murray. And I must say, I can’t wait to get stuck in. I think I’m going to be very happy there.” He turns to Rachel and gives her such a wonderful, open smile that I want to kiss him on the cheek and ruffle his hair.

  Daddy looks severely at Robert. “I think we can stretch to Derek, now we’re to be working together, Robert.”

  Robert nods. “Derek it is.”

  For a moment, there’s an uncomfortable silence. Mummy breaks it. “Rachel’s twenty now, aren’t you, darling?”

  Rachel’s eyes open wide at the floor in embarrassment.

  “Yes,” I say. “This birthday, she had twenty candles on her cake, didn’t you, Rachey?”

  Mummy tuts. “Robert, how old are you now?”

  He blushes. “Twenty-four.”

  “How lovely,” says Mummy.

  “Anyone for a top-up?” asks Daddy, and Rachel and I offer our glasses. Daddy gives us both a censorious look, but fills our glasses anyway. “So, where’ve you been tonight, girls?” he asks.

  I was hoping that someone would ask. “Cochran’s. It was party night – oh, the band was amazing! The singer was just like Adam Faith. The girls were going crazy! Rachel and I danced and danced all night. We had to fight off the chaps too, didn’t we, Rach? In fact, fake-Adam Faith was definitely giving you the glad eye from where I was standing. If we’d stayed on a bit longer, I’m sure he would’ve been down to ask you for a dance.” The silence returns to the room, and it’s suddenly really funny. I take another big swig of wine, just to hide my face. Rachel looks mortified. No one says anything, and when I look up at Robert’s polite face and Mummy’s anxious one, I have to excuse myself before I upset someone by howling with laughter.

  In the downstairs lavatory, my vision spins as I look at my clammy reflection in the mirror. I flop on to the toilet seat and let my head drop on to my knees, as the floor slides from side to side beneath my feet. I can hear Mummy in the hallway, telling Robert that she’ll let Rachel see him to the door as she’s got some clearing up to do in the kitchen. Daddy says he’ll give her a hand. They whisper together as they pass my door on the way to the kitchen.

  After a few minutes, I poke my head out of the door, where I can spy down the hallway to where Rachel stands primly on the doorstep, saying goodnight to Robert. He kisses her on the cheek, and she gives a shy little wave as he goes down the path. I watch and wait for her to close the front door, then rush out to grab her by the wrist.

  “Upstairs. Now!” I whisper and despite her annoyed expression, she rushes up ahead of me to our bedroom.

  “Well?” I ask. “Did he ask you out?”

  “Of course,” she says, aloof.

  “And?”

  “We’re going out for dinner next week, if you must know. No thanks to you, you child.”

  I stand and stare at her as she strips off her clothes and wriggles into a shapeless winceyette nightie. “God, Rachel,” I say, slurring a little. “You’re amazing. The dancing whore of Babylon one moment. The Virgin bloody Mary the next.”

  Rachel tries not to smile, but she can’t help it. “Bugger off, Mary. Just because I know how to handle my drink doesn’t mean you have to get bitchy.”

  “I’m not getting bitchy. After your performance with Robert tonight, even I believed your virginity was still intact. I’m just very, very impressed. That’s all.”

  Rachel smiles contentedly, gazing at the ceiling as I clamber into bed. We lie in silence as we listen to the sounds of Mummy and Daddy settling into their own bedroom.

  “But he is rather sweet, isn’t he?” Rachel asks as she tugs the light pull that dangles between our beds.

  “He’s lovely,” I say.

  “So bugger off, and go to sleep then,” she whispers, the smile still in her voice.

  “Love you, Rach,” I murmur, already half asleep.

  “Love you too,” she says. Her hand reaches out to mine in the darkness, to squeeze the soft pads of my fingers before I slip away.

  Jake, Christmas 1984

  On Christmas Eve, I overhear Mum on the phone in Uncle Robert’s study. She’s talking in an angry murmur, like she’s sneaked off to make the call and doesn’t want to get caught.

  “Because I knew what you’d be like if I told you, that’s why!” she whispers. “You’re a bloody arse, always wanting it your own way! You’re like a spoilt child.”

  There’s a pause as she listens to the other end.

  “You’re being an arse right now! No – no – that’s not the point, Bill, you know that’s not the point!”

  I knew it could only be Dad. Mum never talks to anyone else in the way she talks to him. I’m pressed up against the door frame now, and I can see her through the crack, sitting behind Uncle Robert’s huge desk, leaning forward with the phone to one ear, a hand over her eyes. Her hair hangs around her face like a black curtain.

  “You patronising little shit, Bill! It’s Christmas – of course I’ve had a drink. You bloody hypocrite. I don’t suppose you’ve been down the Royal Oak every night since you downed tools on Friday? But that’s alright, isn’t it? I don’t suppose that’s the same at all, is it, Bill? I tell you what – if Women’s Lib thinks its job’s done, it’s bloody well wrong, Bill, with chauvinist pigs like you roaming the streets. You shit.”

  Mum looks pale and tired. She’s listening to Dad talking, shaking her head every now and then, swiping away the tears. After a pause, she sniffs, shakes her hair back and straightens herself in the chair. Her face is changing, her eyebrows arched, her mouth fixed. She pokes her finger into the crystal glass of gin and tonic in front of her, making the ice cubes bob around. She wipes her wet finger on her lap.

  “They’re not here, Bill. They’ve gone out with Rachel for the afternoon, so I’ll have to get them to call you when they’re back. – No, I’m not having you ringing here all hours, we’ll phone you.”

  Her eyes are cold and icy, all the softness and tears gone. There’s nothing of her to love when she’s like this.

  “Well, you’ll have to be happy with it, Bill, because that’s the way it is. The boys will call in the next few days. – Of course I know it’s Christmas Day tomorrow, Bill. Credit me with that much intelligence. I said we’d call.”

  And she hangs up.

  I slip away like a thief, down the hallway and up to my attic room in the roof.

  Christmas Day is great. Mum’s pleased with the fags – six packs – and she says the Charlie perfume is really lovely. She’s gonna save it for special. And for Andy I got a bunch of 2000AD mags and a pile of sweets. He said, “Skill!” and punched the air in this really annoying way he’s picked up from his mate Ronny, and I had to resist the urge to thump him. He’s had his head stuck in a comic ever since. George’s presents were really expensive by the look of it – a Smash Hits annual, loads of albums and a pile of cash to spend in the sales. Katy got the standard girl stuff – Care Bears, girls’ annuals, hair bobbles and that kind of thing. She seems happy enough though. As usual, Mum got me and Andy the same as each other, and because she forgot to bring our stockings, we both had to hang up a stripy pillow case, which was different. There are new pyjamas, a Cadbury’s selection box, socks and pants, a spud gun (plus spud), books – Stig of the Dump for Andy and The Owl Service for me – and of course, nuts and tangerines and whizzing balloons at the bottom. When she sees George’s presents, she slips me and Andy a tenner each, “to spend in the sales”, she says, and we hug, Andy on one side, me on the other. I wonder where Matt is, what he’s doing on Christmas Day.

  I get to speak to Dad twice. The first time we speak, Mum’s there, so I’m careful what I say so’s not to upset her and cause a fight or anything. It’s 10 a.m. and we’ve just had a massive breakfast of bacon and eggs and Bucks fizz, which I loved. Dad answers the phone on the second ring.

  “Happy Christmas, Dad!” It feels like weeks since I saw him.

  “Jakey!” he shouts, and I can tell he’s sitting up in bed, running h
is hand through his hair, half asleep. “Jakey, son – happy Christmas! How ya doin’, boy? God, I’ve missed you two – you know that? It’s not Christmas here without you.”

  “So, what’re you doing today, Dad?” It’s our first Christmas not together.

  “Oh, you know. Probably pop over to see Gran, and then I’ve got some friends who’ve invited me over for lunch. I might go there.”

  There’s a voice in the background. Definitely a woman’s voice. There’s a rustling as Dad puts his hand over the receiver, I can tell, and then he’s back.

  “What about you, Jakey?” he asks, like it didn’t just happen.

  “Oh, you know, lunch with Aunt Rachel and everyone. They’re really nice, Dad. Really nice. And the house is amazing. They’ve got a dog. Dad – who’s there – I heard a voice?”

  He doesn’t answer straight away, and then I know to feel bad. I know it’s a woman and that’s it.

  “No one, Jake,” he finally says, “it was just the – I’ve got the TV on, that’s all. Go on then, pass me to Andy!”

  And that’s it, he’s gone. My stomach is bunched, and my heart is pounding. I think about the voice, and what Dad said. Yes, that’s probably it. He must have had the telly on, and that’s why I thought it was a voice. I hand the telephone over to Andy.

  “You alright, Jakey?” asks Mum as I leave Uncle Robert’s study. She cups my chin with her hand, looks in my eyes deeply to see what she can see.

  “I’m fine, Mum. I just miss him, that’s all.”

  “Who’s with Dad, then?” she asks, too casually.

  “No one,” I reply. “It was the telly.”

  Later, I sneak back to the study, and call him by myself. It’s about six thirty, and it sounds like I woke him again when he answers. I can hear Scarlett O’Hara in the background, so I guess he’s been watching Gone With The Wind like us. I listen hard for any other voices, but it’s just him there. It must have been the TV earlier, like he said. Dad says he’s been to Gran’s and she said to say happy Christmas. Old bag. He ended up staying there for lunch after all. They had turkey and Christmas pudding, and Gran moaned about the price of everything. I’ll bet she moaned about how selfish the rest of the family are, and how no one bothers with an old ’un like her, like she usually does. Dad says he tried to cheer her day up a bit, did the washing up and made cups of tea for everyone when they visited in the afternoon. He said I’d like my cousins; that we ought to get to know that side of the family too. After meeting Aunt Rachel’s lot, I guess I’d like to. But I know we’d never hear the end of it from Mum.