‘Age is what it’s always been,’ he said.
I pointed to the window. ‘It’s amazing the way the sunshine makes the snow glitter silver. You would have thought gold. The sun being more yellow.’
Katarina had prepared one of Uncle Ian’s favourites, a kind of hamburger named after a Swedish financier and made from prime cuts of veal, minced finely and mixed with egg yolks and thick cream. I could see that if you were tired of life, eating Wallenbergare would be a fine way to go. Katarina served boiled potatoes and peas and low alcohol lager with the Wallenbergare and for a while we ate in silence. I had been known to be a noisy eater so as not to embarrass myself I kept my lips firmly shut between mouthfuls and chewed as if my teeth were scared of meeting. I watched Uncle Ian surreptitiously. He might look all spruce and dapper but I could see in his eyes that he hadn’t recovered from the morning.
Katarina asked if the food was to our liking and Uncle Ian and I both quickly assured her that it was delicious. ‘I asked,’ she said then, ‘because you both look as if you’re chewing cardboard.’
I turned to Uncle Ian, waiting for a response, irritation, a smile, a protest, but he just speared a piece of potato on his fork and raised it to his mouth, concentrating as if he were doing something important.
‘If I phone the estate agent and ask him to email you the details of the house, would you take a look?’ I asked him.
He raised his head and I saw a glint of interest in his faded eyes. ‘Of course.’ He speared another piece of potato and I thought I’d lost him again when he said, ‘Make sure he includes a floor plan as well.’
Did I imagine it or had his voice grown stronger? He reached beneath his sweater for his shirt pocket. ‘Have you got a pen, Katarina?’
Katarina got to her feet and returned with a piece of paper and a biro. Uncle Ian wrote down his email address and passed it on to me before running through a short history of domestic property investment. Maybe I was getting carried away by my imagination but by the time he got to the part where investing in a high-end area if at all possible was always a sound bet, even his sparse hair had begun to look fuller.
Katarina lent me a pair of fur-lined boots and after lunch I walked to the lake. By now the water was frozen solid and, pushed by the wind, the overhanging branches of the trees scratched the ice like fingernails.
We had loved skating, Rose, Portia and I. We hadn’t been any good at it but that had not been the point. The point had been to wear white fur-trimmed skating boots and play at being Christmas card Edwardian young ladies and perchance to stumble helpless into the outstretched arms of Julian and David and – oh I could not recall the names of the others. They had been handsome boys and we had been pretty girls and that had been about the sum of it. Or it should have been. What it should not have been was a matter of life and death.
Fourteen
Sandra/Cassandra
The princesses were actually pretty rubbish at skating but they didn’t know that until they went out on the ice with me. I’d been skating since I was three.
We weren’t supposed to go out on the ice without Miss Jennings.
‘Don’t be pathetic,’ I told them. ‘Anyway, I know these parts as if they were my own pockets.’
‘Oh very Worzel Gummige,’ Portia said.
‘It is a beautiful day,’ Eliza said. ‘C’mon, let’s do it.’
‘Very Mallory Towers,’ Portia said.
‘Oh belt up, Porsche,’ Eliza said.
I turned and gave her a look. Nothing much, not nasty, only as if I were trying to remember who she was and why I should care. She liked to be liked, did Eliza, and I knew I was getting to her. It surprised me, quite frankly, to see how little it took. Not laughing at a joke she made, studying a picture she’d drawn for Art and then not saying anything about it, looking her up and down when she was all dressed up to go off into town then turning away with a tiny smile. Those kinds of things. In fact, I was beginning to think this was better than being her friend.
At first, after that time she talked about me with the others, I had thought of confronting her. To tell her how disappointed I was and that I had believed we were friends. Then I decided on this instead. As I said, she liked to be liked, even by people she didn’t much like herself.
Snow fell across the fields and settled prettily in the hair and lashes of the princesses: Rose the cautious, Portia the waspish, Eliza the enthusiast. The three of them looked like some old-time Christmas card with their rosy cheeks and ridiculously unsuitable clothes. They had started a kind of fashion, rejecting practicality, so instead of wearing the jeans and jumpers and trainers most of us wore for mufti, they were at all times dressed in skirts or dresses and dainty shoes. Actually, Eliza’s shoes could never be described as dainty due to the fact that she wore a size seven but the point seemed to be to wear something uncomfortable that needed polishing. They polished their shoes endlessly.
‘I really don’t think it’s a good idea,’ Rose said.
‘Don’t be so wet.’ Eliza flicked some snow at Rose, who shrieked and jumped to her feet from her perch on a log.
‘It’s only an idea,’ I said. ‘You’ve all been banging on about how much you want to see the boys.’
‘OK,’ Rose said. ‘I’ll come. But if we get caught . . .’
Once we were out on the ice with the shore at a good distance either side and no sign of land behind or ahead, I speeded up. The princesses had been squealing and giggling as they lumbered and tottered out on to the frozen lake in their second-hand skating boots. I couldn’t stand the noise. Part of the glory of being out on the ice was the absence of sound apart from the swish of the blades as you travelled.
I skated past the island, onwards towards the next turn, where I stopped for a minute, hauling some make-up from my bum-bag. I checked my face in the tiny compact mirror. My hair was hopeless, having gone frizzier still from the wet snow, but I had a good colour on my cheeks and no spots. I brushed my lashes with the mascara wand and put on some lipstick. It was the same colour, ‘Pink plum’, that Rose used. I’d always heard that gingers should not wear pink, but when I glanced again at my reflection in the tiny mirror I could see how the shade livened up my skin.
I stuffed the make-up back in my bag and sped off once more. Behind me the princesses were shouting for me to wait. I pretended not to hear, doing a pirouette and skating backwards for a good fifty yards before spinning round. I thought that if my life were lived on skates how different it would be. On skates I was fast and smooth. I was the one the others followed.
The boys weren’t at the jetty when I got there. I had counted on having a few minutes with Julian before Rose came along, a few minutes for him to see me not past me or through me to someone more interesting, but see me, but by the time he and the other boys did arrive, sauntering down the snowy verge and out on the jetty, the princesses were already giggling and wobbling their way towards us.
Eliza waved and promptly fell on her bum. Rose clung on to Portia, who ran into Eliza, and then they lay there in a heap of long limbs and glossy hair and Julian skated over to help them up. No one had even noticed I was there.
When they did notice I wished they hadn’t.
‘Oh Sandra-Cassandra you’ve put on some slap,’ Portia said.
I looked round quickly to see if Julian had heard but he was huddled with David and Matt, smoking.
I pulled a face at her. Then Rose asked, ‘Is that my lipstick?’
I shrugged and lit a menthol. ‘How should I know. I got it ages ago.’
I turned and saw that now he, Julian, was looking at me. Still with the cigarette between my lips I jumped back down on to the ice. I skated on for about twenty yards and then I did some pirouettes and some jumps. I just knew they were all looking now. I carried on, smiling to myself, pretending to be in my own world while actually, I was auditioning for a part in theirs. I could hear my blade on the ice as I skated past on one leg, the other in the air, outstretched. Another
pirouette and I skated towards them at speed, finishing off with a jump and landing full square and steady right in front of them.
No one said anything and then they all clapped. The princesses clapped, and the boys, and then I heard Julian say, ‘That was so cool.’
I don’t think that I had ever been happier than I was at that moment.
It’s funny how being happy makes you nicer. I even forgave Eliza. The next Wednesday I asked them if they were going into town. Portia looked at the other two. ‘We’re not, actually,’ she said finally.
Rose said, ‘Not with that Greek assignment.’
Eliza muttered something about being broke.
I saw them as they returned. I was sitting on the saggy old sofa in the common room trying to concentrate on Tristram Shandy. Eliza and Rose had read it during the Christmas holidays, so they said, although by now – page twenty-four – I was seriously doubting the truth of that. My eyes were wandering from the book to the French windows and back when I saw them ambling along the drive. Eliza was carrying a Miss Selfridges bag and Rose and Portia were pigging out on chips from a Wimpy box. They’d gone into town after all. It was me who had suggested going in the first place so if they’d changed their minds they really should have told me. Then I remembered how uneasy Eliza had looked when she said they weren’t and the way they had exchanged little glances and I realised that they had been planning to go all along, they just hadn’t wanted to go with me. I felt myself go clammy. Nothing was working out the way I had dreamt it would. Instead it was like my old school all over again, only worse, because then it was just about jealousy. I had known I was different from the others at the old place; better, to be honest. For a start I had plans for the future, plans that didn’t include marrying the first acne-ridden loser who asked me and settle down five minutes from where I’d grown up. My parents said I had been like a bright-feathered bird amongst a flock of grey sparrows.
But at LAGs it was all meant to be different. That was the whole point of going. Of my mother not getting the conservatory extension this year either, in spite of having taken on that completely embarrassing part-time job, and of my dad sticking with his ten-year-old Cortina. Of Mum wearing the same dress every time she goes out anywhere and saying it’s because she loves it so much. Of Dad having given up his membership of the club. That’s why they were making sacrifices, so that I could be with girls like me, other bright-feathered girls. Finally I was going to fit in; the round peg in the round hole. Only that’s not how it was, was it?
I got up and walked out through the French windows towards them. When Eliza saw me she startled and her cheeks grew bright pink as if someone had slapped her.
I made my voice all even and said, ‘I thought you weren’t going.’
Rose looked up at me with those huge blue eyes. Then she shrugged.
Portia said, ‘We changed our minds.’
‘I tried to find you,’ Eliza said. She was lying. Again.
Portia and Rose started walking off as if what they had done didn’t matter. I had been quite calm but now I felt the anger build up inside me, choking me, the way it had when I was little and Mum had to give me that cherry-flavoured sedative stuff. I knew I should pause and take deep breaths or count to ten or something, anything rather than what I did. Grab Portia by the shoulder and shriek, ‘Don’t walk away from me, do you hear. Don’t you dare walk away from me. You said you weren’t going in to town today.’ I swung round and pointed at Eliza and her Wimpy carton, ‘You said you had no money.’ I stopped, breathless, as if anger and hurt had driven the very air from my lungs.
Portia assumed an air of theatrical concern. ‘Gosh, you are in a state, aren’t you?’ She followed with Bafflement and finished off with Contrition. ‘We’re sorry. Really we are. Aren’t we, girls?’ She looked at the others and they nodded gravely and said they were indeed sorry.
I wanted to hit them all and I could do it too; if I spun round like a dervish with windmill arms, I could knock them down like skittles. I started counting in my head. One, two, three, four, five, six . . . My arms dropped to my sides, but my free hand, the one not holding the book, was a fist still, clenching and unclenching. ‘Really?’ I had intended that ‘really’ to sound quizzical, somewhat superior, but instead it came out in a squeak as if I were a boy whose voice was breaking.
Eliza looked even more embarrassed. ‘Are you OK? We’re sorry. We didn’t mean to upset you.’ If Miss Doing the Decent Thing Eliza Cummings spent any more time sitting on the bloody fence she would split in two.
Rose put her soft little hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. My forehead started to itch. I had got better at controlling my temper but I never could control the rash. It started at the hairline and spread down across my forehead; little tiny spots betraying me. I felt the weight of my Penguin edition of Tristram Shandy in my hand. I had forgotten I was holding it. My hand rose in the air as if pulled and then I did it. I lobbed the book, as well and as hard as I could, right at Portia’s head.
Portia ducked, but too late. She cried out as the corner of the book hit her right above the left eye, cutting her eyebrow. I took a step back, stumbling on the edge of the lawn. I managed to steady myself but I was breathing as if I had run a race.
‘Are you completely mad?’ Eliza stepped in front of me.
I smirked. I had managed to knock her off that bloody fence at last.
‘Seriously, have you gone completely mad?’
Portia, supported by Rose, had gone to sit down on the bench by the wall.
I looked at them then back to Eliza and I said, all calm now, ‘You lied to me. You all lied to me and then you laughed about it. And I won’t put up with it.’
I spent the rest of the afternoon waiting to be called into Miss Philips’s study. Maybe I would be suspended, expelled even. If I were, at least my parents’ disappointment would be over with quickly, like the blow to the head of a twitching bird.
But nothing happened. There was no summons to the housemistress, no visits from Laura, our up-herself practically-perfect-in-every-way house prefect.
The next day Gillian explained that the princesses would rather swallow their tongues than tell on a friend. I was torn between the rather delicious image of them chewing and swallowing their tongues and the unexpected assessment that I was seen as their friend. Then I remembered that Gillian in her despised position at the bottom of the heap was likely to consider anyone who actually spoke to you a friend, so I concentrated on the tongue swallowing.
The following Wednesday I spent all my money on a huge bottle of ‘Charlie’ for Portia. I wrapped the bottle in red and gold paper – then I tore it off and went back into town and got some floral stuff in case Portia thought I’d been cheap and used Christmas leftovers. I bought a card too, with a punk standing in front of the guards at Buckingham Palace. I wrote saying how sorry I was and that I had never really learnt self-control but now I was learning through example and how amazing I thought it was to be a pupil at LAGs and how much their friendship meant to me. I drew a heart on the card.
The truth was I sort of meant what I wrote. The truth was I made myself sick sometimes by how I behaved. I felt sick now just thinking about it. In my mind my fists pounded the sides of my head until they were crushed bits of bone imploding into bloody mush.
But in the end Portia was actually nice to me about it all. She said she’d already forgotten about the ‘incident’ as she called it and that she just adored ‘Charlie’ and how did I know, seeing that she had never worn it? She even showed me some photos from her skiing holiday, including one of Julian. Portia talked about him all the time to people but only the inner sanctum were shown photos.
Eliza said my apology showed style. I looked at her.
‘I live for your approval,’ I said. Then I smiled, a nice smile as if I were being funny-friendly. She smiled back but I could see from her eyes that she felt uneasy.
Fifteen
Eliza
Up on the hi
ll the air was fresher. Up on the hill the small square opened up like a smile. Up on the hill life was easy. Up on the hill stood a house that looked as if it had been built on the piss. This was the house I wanted. I had wanted it ever since the day I first saw it, an autumn day seven years ago when out walking with Gabriel. He and I had met not long before, as I had staggered into the hospital A&E reception area bleeding all over the lino at the exact same minute as Gabriel was passing that exact same part of the reception area. He had taken my elbow to steady me before passing me over to the triage nurse.
(‘Why didn’t you help me yourself?’
‘I’m not an A&E doctor.’
‘So if I’d been lying dying on the road would you have just passed by too?’
‘Of course not. That would be completely different. And I didn’t pass by, I handed you over to the appropriate member of staff. Anyway, if I had treated you I wouldn’t have been able to have a relationship with you. So it was just as well, wasn’t it?’
‘Ah, but you didn’t know that at the time. That you wanted to have a relationship with me.’
‘How do you know I didn’t?’
‘You did?’
‘No. But I do now.’)
Gabriel, with his mind crammed full of matters of life and death was particularly unsuited to that kind of cringe-worthy banter but still he had risen manfully to the challenge, proving, on the way, that love was a true proponent of equality, making fools of us all with no regard to colour, creed, educational attainment or profession.
The second time Gabriel and I met was at the hospital fundraising ball. The tickets had cost a hundred pounds, which was a lot of money for a ceramic restorer to spend on an evening out, but I felt bad for having taken up scarce hospital recourses when my injuries were self-inflicted as near as made no difference. I had also donated a lustreware cup to their raffle. It was not of museum quality but it was pretty and the best piece that I owned and I had thought long and hard before letting it go. In the end I had had to remind myself that the greater the sacrifice the more worthwhile the gift would be. (I’m never sure why it should be so, but it did seem to be the general understanding.) Also I liked thinking how pleased the lucky winner would be with the cup. In the event the man whose raffle ticket won him my cup had turned the gold and pink piece in his hand before passing it, with a laugh and a shake of his head, to his companion.
Drowning Rose Page 10