by Dawn French
In it she sits in a chair, front centre, cool and collected. Her husband Thomas and son Kemble stand behind her, and Thomas has his hand on her shoulder. She wishes Kemble had worn a better suit and stood more upright, but oh well. On the floor in front of her are her twin eight-year-old grandchildren, Kemble’s sons, Thomas Wilder-Bingham the Third, also known as ‘Three’ and Kemble Wilder-Bingham Junior, also known as ‘Red’. Kneeling awkwardly to the side of royal Glenn is Kemble’s eldest son, the eighteen-year-old suit-begrudging photo-begrudging Edward Wilder-Bingham, also known as Teddy.
This is Glenn’s kingdom. Her kith and kin. Queen Lear. Queen Herod. Queen Bee.
She sweeps past the well-edited, well-displayed gallery of her life with a great swoosh of assured click-clack.
Click. Clack. Rosie hears the approaching footsteps as she is hurriedly trying to wring out the rain from the cuffs of her sodden jacket. Her attempts to dribble only onto the New York Times are futile. The drops refuse to fall tidily, this is renegade rain, weather which just will not behave, even when it’s debuting inside the library of a posh Upper East Side apartment.
With the immense confidence of only a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, Glenn Wilder-Bingham enters the room. She is here. Rosie tries hard to remember that this would be a good time to heed her Nan’s advice to her when she was young, namely that you really don’t need to show every single tooth in your mouth when you smile. She can’t help herself. She does it now, just like she did it then, to brighten matters when the moment could potentially be tricky. Rosie is a radiator, she will always risk an over-smile to channel some warmth into the room, even if it doesn’t work. She is a megawatt optimist so now she really smiles, desperately showing lots of teeth. But Rosie has met her match in Glenn, an experienced smile withholder, who can snuff out Rosie’s kind of bright joy in a millisecond.
‘Hello!’ beams Rosie, hopefully, smilefully. Glenn surveys the dripping Brit, nods almost imperceptibly and places herself on one of the faded daffodil sofas. Somehow, without any instruction, Rosie knows full well that she is not invited to sit down, so she remains awkwardly rooted to her square of newspaper. ‘Lovely flat. Really … amazing … Lovely.’
‘Yes,’ confirms Glenn quietly, and adds, as a corrective footnote, ‘apartment.’
‘Of course, apartment, doh,’ Rosie counters, generously indicating what a dolt she must appear to be.
Glenn calmly observes the apologetic display, allowing Rosie yards of rope by which to hang herself. Fortunately for Rosie, Iva interrupts the social hara-kiri by bringing in a tray of tea and placing it on the coffee table in front of Glenn, who assures her quietly, ‘That’s right, Iva.’
As Iva deferentially leaves the room, Glenn looks over to Rosie, ‘Tea? I believe it’s what you enjoy, English Breakfast.’
‘Oooo yes, thank you … just what … the doctor ordered …’ Rosie increasingly loses faith in her own cheeriness … ‘not that I need the doctor …’
For the next very long minute Glenn says nothing, and pours the tea exquisitely into the exquisite china cups. This is proper tea. No tea bag in sight. Glenn’s hand is steady, and when the tea is poured and the milk is in (no sugar, wouldn’t dream of it) Glenn rises and hands the cup and saucer to Rosie, who accepts it with gratitude and really really wishes it had sugar.
The rest of the conversation is conducted with Glenn on the sofa and Rosie remaining on the paper, as if she’s in the cat-litter tray, juggling the cup and saucer and her handbag with some difficulty. Glenn holds her own teacup and saucer with no sign of nerves, utterly cool and collected. Rosie’s cup shakes and rattles in its saucer throughout.
Rosie attempts an ice-breaker, ‘Must be a big window cleaning bill,’ she nods to the windows, ‘Long ladders …’
No response. Jokes are not acceptable here. Glenn’s teacup chinks on her saucer, ‘You come highly recommended by the agency.’
‘That’s great, good. It’s my first job with them.’
Glenn glances down at Rosie’s C.V., which lies on the table.
‘Fully qualified, experienced primary school teacher … Looe?’
‘Yes. It’s in Cornwall. Long pointy county at the bottom end of England …?’
‘I see. I have always believed ‘loo’ is British for bathroom?’
There’s an uneasy pause, while Glenn continues to inspect the C.V. Rosie takes a welcome gulp of her tea, which unfortunately turns into a fairly audible slurp.
As if to make a point, Glenn sips her tea soundlessly. In every way she is superior. She decides to pry. ‘So your parents live there?’
‘They did, yes. Neither of my parents are alive any more, sadly,’ says Rosie, honestly.
‘I see.’
Rosie decides to grasp the bull by the horns, ‘Are Thomas and Kemble your grandsons?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. And they live with you?’
‘No. They live with their mother, but we feel it’s high time for them to come and live with their father, so they are moving in here for now …’
‘I see.’ Rosie reminds herself of the names, ‘Thomas and Kemble, Thomas and Kemble …’
‘Thomas Wilder-Bingham the Third, and Kemble Wilder-Bingham Junior.’
‘Thomas and Kemble, Thomas and Kemble. It’s that names thing about being a teacher, you have a year of looking at a whole new sea of faces, so I repeat them to get them in my head. Got a memory like a … like a … draining implement you use in the kitchen … with holes …’
Glenn ignores this renewed attempt at humour, and returns to perusing the C.V. Rosie is hard-wired to fill the quiet with chirpy noise, but she resists, letting Glenn denote the tempo and the volume of this particularly stilted duet. She tries to sip her tea quietly, and gives Glenn all the time she wants. Which is a lot. Eventually, Glenn looks up at her. Is that a tiny disdainful smile on her face?
Rosie’s inherent self-worth kicks in. Two can play at this game. The pause breadthens. No-one is giving in. At least, not overtly. But in the clod of that messy moment, a tiny shoot of mutual respect is planted. Yes, one of these women is potentially going to be in the employ of the other, but that’s no reason for Rosie to surrender her backbone. Glenn is the first to cave … but only slightly.
‘They arrive tonight. You are to acquaint yourself with them this weekend, then care for them before and after school, accompany them to and from school, and accompany them to activities on weekends and holidays, for which there is a nominal budget. You will take your meals here with the family and their father will join when his work permits.’
Rosie purposefully says nothing, just stares at Glenn, who seems a little unnerved. Eventually, Glenn asks, ‘That is amenable to you?’
If you could count minute invisible molecules of power, this tiny shift might measure one out of a thousand on the status Richter scale. Minuscule, but potent, because Glenn doesn’t ordinarily give away a single dot.
Rosie takes her place squarely in the centre of this rare opportunity. ‘And where will you be?’
Glenn’s face sours ever so slightly. A worthy blow. Who is this impertinent fat English upstart? The two women are locked in a game of who can be silentest longest. The cats are circling each other.
The orchids on the windowsill grow in the gap.
Then a big full pendulous waiting drip on the end of Rosie’s sleeve gives up the ghost and hurtles to the floor in a sudden bid for freedom. It lands with an impressive splosh and breaks the moment. Now, Glenn has the edge, infinitesimally small though it may be …
Rosie says, ‘I don’t know what to call you.’
Glenn smirks, folds the C.V. and stands, ‘Mrs Wilder-Bingham.’
‘Right. Surnames. Got it.’
‘Iva will show you your room and we will expect you at breakfast at seven thirty.’
And, just as assuredly as she arrived, Glenn Wilder-Bingham leaves.
Rosie remains, and drips in her right place.
Moved
/> Later that evening, Rosie is sitting on her single bed in her strange new home, with her suitcase and a bulging tote bag of clothes on the bed next to her. She can’t believe how quickly everything has altered in her life. She is in a rather drab and dark suite of rooms which are set at the very centre of the apartment, so the window looks out, or rather in, onto the open stairwell of the entire block. All of the windows she can see on the other floors are small and dirty, and have air-conditioning units jutting out, just like hers. The only purpose of this well is to serve as a fire escape for all of the apartments, and to provide many window ledges for the pigeons to sit and shit on. Due to there being a further four levels above the Wilder-Binghams’ floor, plus lots of structures on the roof, there is very little sky to be seen and precious little sunlight. The rooms consist of a small but cosy sitting room in which is crammed a large sofa, a coffee table and a desk against the wall. A bedroom with a slightly bigger than single bed, a bedside table, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a mirror. And a small bathroom with a shower over a small half-sized bathtub the like of which she’s not seen before. Especially made to fit into a small space. Although perfectly clean and comfortable, these rooms are distinctly unloved, the furniture clearly mismatched and obviously the least desired of anywhere else in the apartment. However, when it comes to the Wilder-Binghams even their rejects are still pretty classy, so Rosie feels that it can all work. Besides which, there are two Persian rugs on the floor, one in each room. She has always ALWAYS wanted to walk on a Persian rug in bare feet, she feels sure it would be the height of luxury.
So she reaches down and takes off her damp but still splendid red brogues and then peels off her soggy russet socks, and slowly stands up, savouring every step that puts the lavish dry carpet next to her pruney waterlogged feet. The carpet is surprisingly stiff, but it still feels heavenly. Rosie clenches her toes to gather up the pile and she feels the delight of having a long-term itch scratched. She wants more, so she swipes her feet alternately along the floor, like a dog smugly covering up an impressive poo. It feels utterly lovely and it grounds her properly, because it amuses her, and when you can laugh to yourself about something, about anything, it helps you to stave off any loneliness, doesn’t it? Rosie knows that big pounding homesickness lurks naggingly somewhere deep but she is staunchly refusing to feel it. With a big deep breath she looks around her rooms and resolves to be good at this job. With that new courage as her fuel, she begins to unpack and settle in to her nest.
The first item out of her case is the most beloved, a framed picture she took of a chough soaring above the cliffs at Bedruthan. Cornwall. The edge of her country, her county. Where the light is exquisite. Where there are moors and coves and cliffs and woods and raging surf and gentle pools and cream and endless skies. Where she is known. Home.
Twelve floors down, a shambolic fifty-year-old man in a good quality but crumpled city suit smokes out of the lobby door, nervously waiting. This is Kemble, a well-heeled, badly loved man. His glance darts up and down 90th St in its frozen February gloom. He finishes his cigarette, fidgets, paces and tucks his shirt in to try and make the best of himself.
Suddenly two boys appear from nowhere and bang on the glass, making him jump. He waves weakly, and sees behind them a small blonde, neat, well-put-together, smokey gamine woman, with startling green eyes, struggling with two large suitcases. The lofty doorman that Rosie experienced is completely different with these folk, who clearly have the right to be here, so he rushes to assist the woman. He knows her. She is Natalie, mother of the twins and soon to be ex-wife of Kemble.
It is immediately clear that this handover of the children is typical in its awkwardness. The boys dash into the revolving door and enjoy going round twice, and as they do, the man and the woman look at each other through the glass. She turns and walks back to the waiting car. Kemble remains watching her until he is jolted into the present by his two boys who finally tumble excitedly out of the revolving door and into the lobby with their father. All three of them get into the elevator with the suitcases. The boys are fizzing but they know to rein it in a bit when they come here. Dad isn’t as lighthearted as Mum. And Granma Glenn isn’t any fun at all, but Granpop Thomas is game, and anyway none of it matters too much at the moment, because they’re with Dad. Yes, they want lots of Dad. Three is a more cautious lad than Red, who is a washing machine of continuous energy cycles. Three is also slightly smaller than Red, and he’s a clever, sensitive anxious soul who, despite his slighter stature, is looked up to by the more robust Red. Three is a tidy blond with a touch of red. Red is red. In every way. He’s fiery and fearless and funny, and has a flame of proud sticky-up red hair to announce it.
These twin chaps are magnets for each other. They are especially close, but when they do fall out, a rarity, the repell is cataclysmic and cruel. Then, just as quickly as they tear apart, they suddenly inexplicably mend again and all seems instantly, genuinely forgiven. These demolitions and repairs happen in twin-time, to the exclusion of others. They truly belong together in a way that ordinary siblings don’t quite, and it’s this phenomenal connection that has kept them both strong in the last year when the split between their parents could have been devastating. They are perplexed by it, and Three especially worries about it, but because each parent is behaving well in front of them, like a lot of decent divorces, the boys are shielded from the worst hurts. Those are reserved for private meetings with lawyers and shockingly clinical letters that fire off several times a week between the two parties. That’s where the vicious greedy battles are fought.
The negotiations have recently collapsed entirely, prompting Queen Glenn to bully Kemble into insisting that the twins move in with them for a few revengeful months, thereby stoking the fire of Natalie’s pain into a raging furnace of frustration. Glenn has stopped loving Natalie altogether, if indeed she ever did. It wasn’t part of her plan for Kemble to marry a Frenchwoman. She would have preferred a less continental choice. A non-smoker. Someone more waspy, perhaps? Glenn now regards Natalie as a threat, and has closed ranks against her. Natalie knows of old that Glenn is not someone you want as your enemy, but it’s her boys at stake, so ‘little’ ‘fragile’ Natalie has butched up for the fight of her life. This concession, letting the boys spend time with the Wilder-Binghams, is only because Natalie knows how desperately her beloved boys want time with their father. It’s heartbreaking for Natalie but she knows she must do the right thing by them, so that’s why she has delivered them up to the East Side. It’s not forever, it’s just for now.
Inside the lift, Red is gabbling away about the gadget he wants most in the world, which is a junior metal detector, ‘It’s, like, so cool, Dad, because you could get one too, the big one will fit over your arm. The one I want, like, fits over my arm. You can like find gold an’ stuff … pirate coins …’
Three stands quietly next to his father. He looks at Kemble’s hands in his pockets, and he reaches his own little hand up to link into his father’s wrist. Kemble removes his hand from his pocket and holds Three’s hand. Red clocks this and grabs Kemble’s other hand, and so they travel upwards, the little men holding on for dear life to the big man they so want, and they so want to be near, and they so want to be.
Up
Inside Glenn and Thomas’s bedroom there is silence save for the odd grunt and sigh as the octogenarian and the septuagenarian wake up their ageing bodies and clamber into their clothes. Morning is such a creaky time these days. Sleep is an anaesthetic that renders the body alien and stiff. Glenn has accepted the changes with a certain reluctance, she stretches and yawns and slowly goes about her morning ritual. She looks out of her bedroom window, where she has a view into Central Park and she notes that the snow from three weeks ago still remains in clumps here and there where the most shade is. It’s cold, and that’s just how she feels, cold. The apartment is heated and all the radiators are warm. Glenn’s skin isn’t cold, her skeleton is. She knows it will warm up as she goes about her
day and begins to move, but at the moment she is very cold on the invisible inside.
Thomas is unwilling to concede that time is stealing up on him. If ever there were a Canute of time, this is he. Old age is lapping around his ankles, but still he insists his feet are dry. Although his bones ache, he likes to be brisk right from the very off. His wife often tells him to take it easy and slow down, but that’s just not his style. Consequently he often pulls a muscle or jerks a joint purely because he goes at life like a bull at a cape. Still a substantial man, Thomas stands to pull up his trousers and neatly tuck in his shirt. Glenn has selected both, as always. Once upon a time, he resisted her controls but he submits most of the time for the sake of a peaceful life. He doesn’t like the fact that he wears bigger shirts now to fit round his expanding girth, that his belt is two holes further out, that half of the suits in his wardrobe are now defunct. It’s handy that Glenn puts out his clothes, it means Thomas can avoid thinking about everything connected to them. He doesn’t even like to look in the mirror if he can avoid it, but he can’t manage his tie without, so that’s the daily reality check moment. Yep, here he is. Tall, bit stooped, full head of silver hair, was reddy-blond once, silty blue eyes, pronounced features, with a landslide of sun-damaged liver-spot skin drooping off a strong, big-boned skull. A face to respect with the promise of fun lurking just behind his lovely lively eyes at all times. There was a time Glenn enjoyed that cheeky side of him, but more recently, she has little patience for any mischief, so it has left the building. He doesn’t stop to consider when they last belly-laughed together because the harsh reality would trouble him too much. He has occasionally wondered with sadness, whether he will ever ever laugh again with her? Maybe that’s it now. No wife-fun til death. What a shame.
How did they slide into this joyless way? It must have been a slow creep, he can’t recall a particular moment, a landmark of despair or depression that would have been a clear indicator. Nothing actually happened. It just became this way. And it’s not so terrible that he feels the need to get out. She is who she is and he is who he is, just … sort of less than they were. Tracing paper versions of their vibrant former selves. Less colourful, less lit, less everything. On the face of it, he has accepted that this diminished version of themselves is purely the ageing, but somewhere deep he knows that is baloney.