by Lynn Watson
Fran gawped at her friend, overwhelmed by surprise and a sudden hollow feeling of abandonment. Vicky maintained a steady stare, her evident concern laced with a different quality: a kind of detachment. Fran’s eyes began to well up, but she resolved not to allow herself to shed tears, or be stared out.
‘Okay, Vicky, that’s your opinion. I don’t agree but… I’m finding this hard, on top of… everything else. Like, it’s difficult with Andy now – he’s avoiding me and he won’t talk about it. I don’t know what to do, or I know what to do but I can’t do it, I’m too weak. I don’t want to end it with him because… it’s partly about Judi and partly desire, or lust if you like; he’s so seductive without even trying, and it’s special because of Judi and…’
There – she had blurted it out now, all wrong and at precisely the wrong moment; she had exposed her weakness. Vicky reached for her hand and squeezed it.
‘I understand. You’ve been saying that for a few weeks: he’s acting differently. You need to end that too, find the strength to do it. It will only get worse if you don’t, and deep down you don’t want to be with him, you’ve said that.’
‘I know, and it’s plain ridiculous. I’m ridiculous, and I’m being very shallow.’
‘No, I’m not going to accept that. You are an A1 gorgeous woman, strong and kind and one of the best I’ve ever met.’
‘I’m sorry, Vicky, it’s these waves of sadness, the grief, it just comes over me. It magnifies everything…’
‘I do understand, and I don’t want to be hard on you. It’s all part of the process, Fran, the stages of grieving, and you’re dealing with a lot of changes and stress in your life right now. It’s bound to get on top of you sometimes.’
‘Tell you what, I can’t see Ned tonight. Whatever wacky proposition he wants to put to me, it’ll have to wait.’
They sat in silence while Jean-Claude, in his long blue apron, discreetly tidied up around them, their hands gripped tightly at first but steadily loosening until Vicky slid hers gently out of Fran’s grasp.
Chapter 14
She had switched her Saturday shift at the shop so that she could visit her relatives, now a welcome prospect as she needed to get out of London and gain some perspective on the Junoco situation. There was also the car to be picked up, the family car that Cerise was passing on to Fran after a minor bump at some traffic lights that had shaken her already declining confidence. The condition was that Fran would regularly take them out to their favourite haunts and events.
On the train journey, she sat near a family with three young kids, all immersed in their electronic games. She thought of the schoolboy she had half-minded on that final journey to visit Judi. Gazing out the window, she visualised the rabbits and foxes in which the boy had showed zero interest. The fields and the railway embankment were wintry now, but the greenery, flowers and wildlife would take over again within the next few weeks; perhaps sooner if there was an early warm spell.
He was an unusual child, that boy, not like these kids, and the most peculiar thing was how he transformed when he leapt off the train, switched to a completely different persona for his school friends, who seemed to idolise him. Judi had possessed that chameleon-like quality, as well as her natural charisma, and Ned and Vicky had something of it too, which might be why Fran found them so hard to read. Why did Vicky advise her, almost order her, to leave Junoco; change tack so sharply? What was it that she couldn’t explain, that she still had to do?
Arriving at the family house, Fran stopped to examine the copper-coloured Mini on the drive. There was no sign of any damage to the front bumper and the car was in good condition, consistent with its light use over the past five years. Cerise stepped out of the front door and swept across the grass with her arms outstretched to give her a generous embrace.
‘Will it do for you, this nice little car? I’m very fond of her, but she’s just sitting there most of the time. It will be a much more exciting life for her in London.’
‘It’s fantastic, Cerise. I really appreciate it and look forward to our outings too. Is everything okay? Anything you need to warn me about before we go in?’
‘Just one thing – we’re all keen to try your chocolates again, so I hope you got the message about bringing a box down for the old folk. It did perk us up at Christmas.’
‘Yes, I got that, and I have it here in my bag. I’m glad you weren’t too put off by what happened to that poor little mouse.’
As they crossed the hall, Pansy paused in scrabbling around for seeds and nuts on the floor of her cage and produced one of her prolonged and indignant shrieks.
They all gathered for lunch, a beef stew with dumplings followed by Cerise’s lemon meringue pie with its high and well-burnt peaks. George was keen to accompany Fran and Cerise on a drive, but Eleanor declined the invitation, saying bluntly that she didn’t want to squash in the back with George and his funny smells. Fran drove the two of them to the coast, where they walked slowly along the beach and had vanilla ice cream cones, sitting on the sea wall surrounded by voracious seagulls.
After a light supper round the television, Cerise announced it was time for a party.
‘A Junoco party, that’s the name, isn’t it? We can have the chocolates and play that game of charades we invented at Christmas, unless we’re inspired to come up with something else. Is everyone in favour?’
Fran looked at her mother, expecting her to dismiss this jollity and retreat with a barbed comment. Instead, though, Eleanor seemed positively keen.
‘Well, come on then, Cerise. What are we all waiting for?’
Fran fetched the Junoco box and handed out the blue-wrapped truffles, then suggested that Cerise light some candles to enhance the visual effects and accentuate the shift of mood. For Fran, the vivid geometric shapes appeared more quickly each time, perhaps because her brain was anticipating them, but there was always something unique: new objects spiralling into her vision, or unfamiliar sounds and scents. This evening, the tumbling shapes were tactile. She could reach out and feel them, finding the jagged-looking ones soft and the smoothly rounded ones hard and dangerously spiky to the touch.
She looked down at her hands lying placidly on the arms of the chair, reaching out only in spirit. The falling shapes joined to form a stunning kaleidoscope of symmetrical patterns that instantly collapsed, breaking into a thousand tiny fragments of coloured glass. At the perimeter of her vision, the pieces appeared to transmute into minuscule hummingbirds, lightning flashes of feathers.
The long silence was broken by George, who spoke loudly and formally, as if talking to base station. ‘Are you hearing me, loud and clear? We are maintaining velocity and direction through a shower of heavy particles, comprising large chunks of ice, metal and rock along the visible spectrum from red to violet. No white and no black. The target is off-screen, repeat, target is off-screen. Do you have it, please confirm?’
Fran caught Eleanor’s eye. Her mother was clearly enjoying this and responded in good humour.
‘We are receiving you, loud and clear. You should have been a sci-fi actor, George, one of the ones who get permanently lost in space.’
After a while, during which time Cerise leaned back with a serene expression and George continued his reports from outer space, Fran picked up the gold-wrapped truffles and handed them round. The initial effects on the old folk were more dramatic this time, and it would be fascinating to see how the gold truffles performed. She felt like an experimental film director, a little unhinged herself but responsible for not letting the plot or the cast get out of hand.
‘I have something to say to you all, before we play any games.’ Eleanor also spoke loudly, commanding their attention. ‘I’ve kept it to myself up to now, but I think you should know.’
Fran held her breath. Was this going to be it: the truth about Marina, the accident, what really happened that day and how her mother saw it, who she blamed for it?
‘Fine, do tell us, Eleanor’, said Cerise calml
y.
Eleanor cleared her throat. ‘I have met a new boyfriend. He’s called John and he works up at the hospital. He’s not an important doctor like Lawrence was, he’s more of a dogsbody, but he is very gentlemanly and he drives a swanky red Alfa Romeo.’
This announcement struck Fran as very odd. Firstly, the use of the term ‘dogsbody’ to describe a new boyfriend, and secondly, the naming of a car as an Alfa Romeo when Eleanor disdained all interest in cars and claimed she couldn’t tell one end from the other. It certainly wasn’t a case of Junoco reawakening old interests and talents.
‘Well, that’s a turn-up for the books,’ said Cerise. ‘And if he’s still working at the hospital, he must be a lot younger than you.’
‘Yes, he’s nearly sixty. It’s his birthday coming up soon.’
‘Did you hear that, George? Eleanor has a new boyfriend called John. He’s nearly sixty.’
George rubbed his eyes, looking more than a touch bewildered. Cerise clapped her hands, seemingly delighted at the new turn of events.
‘And now, everyone, shall we celebrate with that game of charades?’
Fran wondered if Eleanor’s new relationship would stick with them and become one of those legendary family stories, known to be false but accepted as a shared truth and important to their acceptance of each other. She smiled and said nothing.
After a few remarkably well-acted turns of charades, Eleanor said she wanted to call John to say goodnight and went up to her room. George quickly fell asleep in his chair, leaving Fran and Cerise to enjoy one of their intimate chats.
‘I don’t ever want to leave this house, you know,’ said Cerise. ‘I don’t see how we’re going to manage like this forever, but I hope we all leave in a box, when it comes to it. And you will make sure they play the right music at my funeral, won’t you – the crooners and divas and ragtime – and the same for George?’
‘Yes, I promise. And one of those lovely classical pieces you played after eating the Junoco truffles. I hope we’ll hear some of that later tonight.’
‘If I get too old and doddery, I don’t want to be shunted off to a quiet place in the country where nothing happens. I want to have a nice little corner flat in an accident black spot in the middle of a red-light district!’
Fran laughed. ‘Okay, I’ll do my best. I don’t know where that scene bubbled up from, but you realise you’ll have to move to a bigger town to get all that.’
Cerise was in full flow now; veering between emotional reminiscences of her youth, wild aspirations for her old age, which in her eyes hadn’t yet begun, and the happy times she had spent living with Lawrence. Fran waited for the right moment to reopen the conversation they had begun on her last visit.
‘Do you remember, Cerise, you said you hadn’t been told about my little sister Marina, but Dad had told you other things? I’m curious to know what the other things were, if you are able to tell me.’
‘Other things… I’m not sure…’
‘Anything from when he was with Eleanor?’
‘Well, perhaps… I don’t know if I should say this, but he told me they had a baby who didn’t live, a stillborn girl.’
Fran was silent. It was no good – she had to go on with it, had to finish. ‘Do you know when this was – the date? Was it before or after me?’
‘I don’t know, I’m sorry; that’s all I can remember, or it’s all he told me.’ Cerise suddenly looked anxious, bordering on defensive.
‘It’s really okay, Cerise; I’m glad you told me. I’ll ask Eleanor about it tomorrow.’
George was stirring in his chair and Fran took the opportunity to say goodnight to Cerise and escort him up to his bedroom. It was a slow climb and when they got there, George swayed badly and put his hands on the door frame to keep his balance.
‘This is the hedgehog’s room – that’s how I think of it. Tomorrow morning I’m going to tidy up all these papers and magazines and fold my clothes. I’ve had enough of this muddle and I’m not going to get anywhere with my work until I’ve got it all in order.’
‘You’re right, Uncle George, but will you actually do it? Would you like me to come down one day soon and help you get it organised?’
He sat down clumsily on the side of the bed and leaned forward to take her hand. ‘Yes, please. And I need a scientific expert, someone who can turn my theories into reality. I haven’t much time and it will soon be too late.’
That felt like more than enough of astonishing conversations for one evening, and Fran was grateful to crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling until she drifted off.
***
When she woke, it was to a Junoco dream set in the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter. The asteroids were chocolate truffles, the two Junoco varieties of rocky and smooth, but vastly differing sizes. Fran was on a silver space-motorbike with the widest imaginable mirrors, and it was her job to prevent the asteroid truffles from being drawn down towards the earth. Her plan was to keep on the outside of them, circle with them so they didn’t fall or push each other out of orbit. It all seemed perfectly manageable.
As she emerged, she became aware of movement and music in the house. She reached for her sketch pad, the original one with the early sketches of Marina. She pulled her jumper on and tucked the pad under her arm. Passing through the hall, she was drawn to the cage, where Pansy sat on her highest perch.
‘Hello, Pansy. You’re a pretty bird, aren’t you? Tell me something.’
The parrot fluffed up a little and rearranged her feet on the perch, then cocked her head so it was close to horizontal. ‘Pretty bird, my pretty blue and gold…’
Fran stepped back, startled. It was so long since she’d heard Pansy talk. ‘Blue and gold, that’s right. You’re a blue-and-gold macaw.’
‘Lovely flowers – come again soon. Box of chocs,’ trilled Pansy.
The parrot had adopted her own version of the meaningful look that Fran now recognised in her animal encounters. She emitted a rasping screech, then turned away and began to preen herself, conversation over. There was only one likely explanation – Cerise or one of the others had offered their captive exotic bird a taste of Junoco; a taste of home.
George was in the kitchen setting the table for breakfast while Cerise sat at the piano, fingers poised for her next piece, and Eleanor was on the sofa listening. Fran checked to confirm that Cerise was awake and then sat next to her mother, who touched her on the shoulder.
‘Good morning, dear. We’re having an early recital today. Cerise is such a wonderful pianist.’
As the music began again, softly, Fran moved closer to her mother so she would hear her words. ‘Eleanor, Mum, there’s something I need to ask you; that I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time.’
‘A long time – is it about the baby, about Marina?’
Had she known all along how important this was to Fran, or had Cerise said something already this morning? It didn’t matter. What mattered was her mother’s tone of voice, her acceptance that the secret would come out now. Cerise’s playing was quiet and low but also strangely intense, the accompaniment to an historic family moment.
‘Yes, it is. I need to know what happened to her. I remember the accident. It’s my earliest memory, with the motorcyclist flying through the air and—’
‘There was no motorbike. I don’t know what you’re saying. That must have been another time, maybe when you were with your father. I have no memory of it.’
‘What, then? What did happen to Marina?’
Her mother stood up and went to gaze out the window, then turned and came back to sit beside her daughter again. Cerise had stopped playing and swivelled round on the piano stool, while George was coming in with four mugs of tea on a tray, which he placed carefully on the coffee table.
‘We called the baby Marina, but she didn’t survive. She was deprived of oxygen at birth and she didn’t survive; she died while she was being born. I wasn’t able to tell you, to talk about it. I imagined it would upset you
, but if I’m honest, it just upset me too much.’
Fran pushed her sketch pad under the cushion. There might be another time to tell Eleanor she had done all the drawings, imagined her little sister’s looks, her personality and her life right through to now, to her early fifties.
After a quiet interval while they sipped their tea, Cerise suggested breakfast. As they stood up, Fran and Eleanor turned to each other for a quick but sincere hug, which avoided any need for further explanation or comment.
Fran went to have a shower and get ready to drive home. Cerise handed her the car key fob with a ceremonial flourish and all three of them came to the front door to see her off. As she walked to the car, she made out a figure near the gate, half-hidden by the overgrown hedge. It was Tom Harrison, the man who had been bothering George and attempting to exploit him. She called out to him, loudly enough for the group gathered on the doorstep to hear her.
‘I can see you, Tom Harrison. Come out from behind that hedge. George has got something to say to you.’
Tom came out, his face contorted and defiant, and walked past Fran across the grass, trying to ignore her. When his expression tightened and he raised his fist as if preparing for a punch, George stepped forward and put up his hand.
‘Stop right there, hold it. I’ve had enough of you, Tom. I’m running out of time and I’ve got important things to do, for the future, for science. You’re standing in the way of progress. I’ve tried to help you, but you have to sort out your own life, so go away and do it.’
‘And don’t ever come back here,’ added Eleanor. ‘We have far more power than you can possibly imagine, and we’ll give you short shrift if you try anything on us. I wouldn’t dare come near us again, if I were you.’
Cerise had the last word as Tom simply stared at them, all three standing close together, before turning down the path and stumbling off.
‘Good luck to you, Tom. No hard feelings.’
Fran opened the car door, threw her bag onto the back seat and waved to the exultant and formidable trio as she drove away.