Mothertime

by Gillian White

  Neither does Lot. He is worried that Bart is not really pleased to see him, that he might want to be alone with his sickness as a dog crawls behind the hedge with his wound. Or it might be that he is glad. There is no way of telling and it just makes Lot feel horrible. He can’t understand why Ruby left, either, and he doesn’t know what to say to make things any better. He has never seen Bart looking so forlorn and dejected before. It is not in his brother’s nature to succumb to misery and let it envelop him like this.

  ‘I’ve lost my business, I’ve lost my house, I’ve lost my kids and I’ve lost my wife.’

  ‘And the car.’

  Bart’s smile is the furthest from a smile that Lot has ever seen. An icy snarl would be a better description of the grim crack that cuts across his face, like a piece of metal twisted from a bumper. ‘Oh thanks, Lot. Great. Yep, and the car, Lot, and the car. Ever been drunk, brother of mine? Ever been well and truly pissed right out of your head so you don’t know the day let alone the time, so you don’t know your own fucking name? Have you?’

  Lot shakes a heavy head. Bart looks as if he’s been drinking already. He sounds as though he has, too—heavy and slurred like the men who sleep on the pavements, although there is no bitter smell in the room, only the nappies. He fingers his rainbow pullover lovingly. Nope, he doesn’t think Bart is going to notice it after all.

  ‘Well, that’s what I’m supposed to do, isn’t it? Get frigging well pissed as a fart and then put the gun to my head.’

  ‘Or we could have a cup of tea.’ Lot inspects the selection of bottles, messily arranged behind the sink. ‘Or lime juice might be better. Have you got a gun licence, Bart?’

  The vehemence of Bart’s anger is startling. ‘The bitch… The cunt… the cow!’

  Lot shivers all over; even his hair seems to stand on end. Slack-jawed with astonishment he pleads, ‘No, Bart, no. Please don’t talk about Ruby like that.’

  ‘Not Ruby, Caroline!’ Bart shouts desperately, his cheeks flooding flaming beetroot. ‘Not Ruby, you arsehole—Caroline fucking Townsend! Why did I ever do it? What got into me? And who made that phone call, anyway? Who is stirring this shit?’

  Damn it, Bart is absolutely right. He is not to blame for this in spite of Ruby’s, ‘It takes two to tango.’ Lot is uneasy to see Bart vulnerable and self-reproachful, it’s not right. That woman must have lured him like a wicked enchantress and bewitched him against his will. Lot knows how that happens to men—it’s going on all the time on the telly, and look at that picture of Eve that hangs on the hostel wall! Bart is innocent and yet poor Bart is having to shoulder all the blame. Lot is desperate to help his poor brother. It is very satisfactory to hate someone together, especially someone who’s wanton and vicious. Patently uncomplicated, Lot knows that there is nothing more potent than searing hatred or hopeless love—lovelorn scrawls and harsh stabbing, that’s what Lot likes to do best with his pencil—and now he’s got both he’s upset, but there’s a kind of harmony in hating and loving at the same time, like when a circle becomes complete. And Lot finds a certain wholeness in it.

  Minutes pass. Miserable, uncomfortable minutes as Lot watches Bart’s unhappy white fingers moving over the stubble on his chin. He thinks to say, ‘Perhaps you’ve got enemies that you don’t know about.’

  ‘What’s the point of anyone being my enemy, Lot?’ Bart continues to stare at Lot but his gaze passes through; he does not see him—perhaps he sees Ruby still sitting in the chair. ‘No one can possibly be envious of me. I haven’t got anything of anyone else’s, and I don’t owe anyone, except for the bank and they have no feelings, like executioners.’

  ‘Well, somebody must have done it.’

  ‘Unless it was Caroline herself.’

  ‘Caroline, phoning up to tell Ruby what was going on? Phoning up to get you into trouble? Why? Why would she do that?’

  Bart sneers. ‘A woman scorned! And a pretty hysterical sort of woman at that. I wouldn’t put it past her. I wouldn’t put anything past that bitch. And d’you know what I’m gonna do, I’m going to ring her up right now and find out.’ Wildly excited by his rabid animosity, Bart thinks that doing something is going to ease his pain. He is trying to wiggle his way right out of reality.

  Now is not the time to tell his brother that this device never works.

  Lot, sighing, lets his guilty eyes slide round the room. When he is nervous he can’t stop yawning and there’s a yawn so huge coming along that his jaw will probably click. He tries to stop himself and his eyes water. He’s not about to tell Bart that he’s been stalking up and down Camberley Road all day seeking his own revenge. Not in the mood Bart’s in. He’s not about to get himself into trouble with Bart. It’s up to Bart to discover where Caroline is and perhaps Lot can profit from Bart’s investigations.

  Lot fights his straining jaw while fiddling with the salt pot, pretending not to listen too hard to Bart’s one-way phone conversation. The woman is out… that is quite clear from the outset; whoever answers the telephone must be telling Bart that Caroline Townsend has gone away. Bart’s hard voice softens slightly so Lot assumes he is speaking to a child.

  ‘This is Bart. I wonder if you could tell me how long she’ll be away?’

  And then there’s a pause while some sort of explanation is given.

  ‘And what is this Broadlands?’ He is listening intently now. ‘When did she leave? Is there a number I can call her on? Oh, I see. It’s like that. I don’t suppose you’d know whether she telephoned my house on Christmas Day? No? No, I suppose not. That’s okay. No reason, really. Never mind, it’s not that important.’

  Bart rings off and collapses once more. ‘None the wiser. Ought to have known it’d be a complete waste of time. She’s gone to some clinic in Sussex for a fortnight, and apparently it’s not the done thing to contact anyone there. It’s a kind of controlled retreat where these nutters can get their heads together. I think I was speaking to one of the older girls so I couldn’t go into it too deeply. Damn and blast. She could well have been the one who phoned Ruby. Apparently she didn’t leave home until Boxing Day and if she’s crazy enough to decide to shut herself away for two weeks then she must have been pretty upset. Yes, Lot, it could well have been her.’

  Pleased with the result of Bart’s enquiries—he knows about Broadlands now, he can get the full address from the helpful man who shelters in the library—Lot proceeds gingerly. ‘But Bart, it wasn’t that phone call which drove Ruby away. Something else must have happened since then, something that Caroline couldn’t have caused.’

  ‘If only Ruby would speak to me! Hell, don’t I deserve some sort of explanation, for Christ’s sake?’

  The look Lot gives his despairing brother tells him that no, he doesn’t think he deserves a thing. ‘Let’s hope Mum doesn’t find out,’ warns Lot.

  ‘What’s Mum got to do with this?’

  ‘Mum likes Ruby. So does Dad.’

  ‘Lot, damn you, there’s no need to make things bloody well worse! Ruby was going to ask for a loan, I don’t suppose she’ll be doing that now. I’m going to have to put the house on the market. I’m going to have to sell the house on top of everything else. I have lost everything!’ He breaks off for an instant, there is a catch in the back of his throat, then a long hesitation and much helpless shrugging before he is able to continue. ‘You read about people like me. I am a man who has just gone and bloody well lost everything.’

  Lot takes a deep breath. ‘You could come and live at the hostel with me, share my room if you wanted.’

  Bart’s head returns to his hands; they seem to be the only comfortable place for it.

  ‘Bart! Bart!’ shouts Lot, with a burst of childish earnestness. ‘I know what! You could help with the boxes.’

  Is Bart crying? Lot has never seen Bart crying before and it is an unpleasant sound. It is jerky and gurgling, like a sink that needs clearing. It makes Lot feel as if he is falling, as if he doesn’t understand anything in the world any more b
ecause Lot is supposed to be the fool, Lot is the one who cries. When Lot was little Bart was the leader, he took care of Lot when the going got tough and sometimes he let Lot play with his friends. Bart taught Lot how to ride a two-wheeler. Bart showed him where the best conkers were and Lot made friends of his own when he gave away his biggest, most round, most shiny conkers. Once he gave a whole bucketful away to be allowed to bat.

  But Lot is suffused with a new strength of purpose. With a passion that is more like a rage, nothing can deflect him now. For not only has Caroline Townsend destroyed Ruby’s happiness, she has, with her cruel, vindictive telephone calls, managed to bring Lot’s capable, successful brother to his knees. Well look at him, he’s lost everything. And he’s crying. Lot’s two favourite people, broken and brought so low by the deliberately bad behaviour of one most exceedingly wicked woman.

  Lot thinks about apples and serpents. She must be found immediately—and she must be made to pay.

  Twenty-five

  THEY’VE GOT TO KEEP going, there’s so much to get done.

  ‘Bart’s still trying to contact Mother, can you believe it? That’s lust for you. He doesn’t care about his wife at all. I thought that second phone call would put a stop to all that, but I was wrong. We’ll have to leave it now. We can’t keep informing on him when that pitiful woman of his obviously can’t do anything about it.’

  Vanessa’s voice comes breathlessly because they are walking quickly down Oxford Street where the snow is yellow and wet like a kitchen towel used to mop up spilt tea. Parted by crowds every now and again, they swim back together to form a pattern, like filings to a magnet, to continue their avid conversation. This is an important outing. Dominic agreed to stay home with Mrs Guerney. He is acting as watchman this morning. He emptied a jigsaw on the hall floor and was sprawled there, already starting it, when the bustling cleaner arrived.

  ‘What thoughtlessness! Why have you put yourself here of all places? You’ve got the whole house, so why on earth choose this particular spot, directly under the feet of anyone who’s coming or going. What a nuisance, Dominic! Your mother would make you move it, I know.’

  But it was essential that he stay close to the cellar door on this first morning after Mother’s revival. It was imperative that he hear every sound. And he’s the one most likely to deal with trouble without any trace of sentiment. Ilse is out, supposed to be shopping for candles and light bulbs but she’ll be hanging about for hours on Napier Road and then she’ll probably see if Paulo’s sitting in the Plume of Feathers. Luckily, when there’s no one around for Mrs Guerney to talk to, she turns the radio on loud. If Mother decides to be difficult then Dominic will have plenty of time to slip through the basement door and turn up the sauna heating controls.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather one of us stayed with you? As it’s the first time?’ Vanessa was worried to leave him with so much responsibility.

  ‘I’d rather be on my own. I don’t want to be influenced.’

  First stop, and they gathered round Vanessa when she slipped Mother’s cash card into the machine. It was hard to believe that getting someone else’s money was so easy. Over the last few days they have been feeding the card into the machine, and they’ve accumulated enough cash to cover their immediate expenses.

  ‘We’d have to go mad to spend that amount!’

  ‘Still, we must be careful to stick to the list.’

  The list is a long one. They’re all going to have to help carry things back. ‘We’ve got to remember that today we have to concentrate on essentials. There’ll be lots of time to come back and get more as the need arises.’

  With a surging army of others—the sales are in full swing—the four of them halt at a crossing. Sacha, clinging to Vanessa’s hand, ventures quietly, ‘I think you might have upset Mother yesterday, Vanny.’

  Vanessa stiffens. She has tossed and turned all night, reliving the nightmare of the evening visit when she confronted Mother, head on, for the first time in her life. If she hurt Mother then she certainly hurt herself even more. ‘What else could I have said? What other way was there to play it? If I had weakened she would have pounced. I know I was hard, but what we are doing is hard. It’s not a nice thing to do you know, Sacha, to keep somebody locked up. It’s not easy knowing how to talk to a prisoner, particularly when it’s your mother.’ Reassuring Sacha like this, Vanessa is merely running through the arguments she used to console herself last night.

  The green light replaces the red and they move across the road, hurrying because everyone else is hurrying, caught up in the after-Christmas rush.

  ‘I didn’t really realise that we were meaning to keep her down there for so long.’

  ‘Camilla, nor did I. None of us did. But now she’s down there we have to see if we can make things better… for her and for us. We’ll never get another chance.’

  ‘We should have talked about it first.’

  ‘But there wasn’t any time. She asked how long we were going to keep her there and I said that we didn’t know. Anyway, there was nothing stopping you from speaking. Mother even asked to speak to you but you shook your head and I didn’t think you wanted to.’

  ‘Well, I’m looking forward to a new mother.’ Amber, attached to Camilla’s hand, tries to shake herself free. ‘I’m on Vanny’s side. It’s much better being on our own. It’s much better coming out like this to buy exciting things, to bring Mother presents that she’s going to love.’ The child in the bright red tights is forced into a skip to keep up.

  Vanessa is grateful for any support; she feels guilty enough without Camilla rubbing it in. ‘She won’t love them to start with, Amber, we know that, but we just hope she will in the end.’

  But Camilla still isn’t happy. ‘It’s easy now, now that we’ve told everyone she’s away. But what happens in a fortnight’s time after she’s supposed to come back? How will we get away with it then? I’m really scared. Sometimes, you know, I just feel so scared.’

  ‘We’ll have to face that when it comes. Nothing’s so hard when it’s actually happening. Nobody really wants to see Mother, that’s why it’s so easy to shake them off. I think, if we play this right, we could keep her down there for years—not that I want to. All I’m saying, is that it’s probably going to be much easier than we think.’ She stops in her tracks and faces Camilla. Her hand tightens firmly on Sacha’s; she can feel the child’s small fingerbones under the woollen gloves, like a bird’s. ‘The most important thing is that we keep together, as we always have. We might not have an enemy any more, but we still need to hang together. We mustn’t fall out over this, Camilla.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we won’t.’

  And then it’s straight in to Dickins & Jones where they look for a suitable nightie. They are as one when they make their choice. The prettily sprigged cotton with forget-me-nots on a pastel blue base, that’s the one. Full-length and with long sleeves gathered to a ruff at the wrists, it buttons right up to its high neck. It is voluminous. It is beautiful. It is soft and cuddly and fresh.

  ‘It reminds me of King Arthur. I thought you might go for pure white… the kind that you like yourself.’

  ‘No, Camilla, we’re buying for Mother now, not me. Pure white is too childish. And Mother, remember, is not a virgin. Mother has been married.’ Vanessa, flushed, stands at the counter with her wad of notes and feels her heart beating fast because this is the first time they have used Mother’s money in the big outside world. The corner shop doesn’t count.

  But the assistant doesn’t bat an eyelid as she wraps the nightie in tissue before folding it into the bag. She is far too busy to make enquiries about the age of the customer. And anyway, Vanessa, in her severely adult buttoned-up coat, and her ageless hairstyle, looks far too stolid and sensible to be up to anything suspicious.

  It’s Liberty’s next, and here the choice is more difficult. Something simple can be translated into so many different styles. The twins sit down on the carpet while Vanessa and Ca
milla look round, trying not to miss anything slightly suitable, but the pinafore dress is hard to beat. Floral again, it hangs softly down from above the breasts of the hard-faced model, softening even her with her coarse horsehair and her flat, flaring nose, and if it can soften that plastic woman it must surely soften Mother. And ideal underneath is a crisp, white blouse with a queenly ruff at the neck.

  ‘Mother’s going to look like someone out of the Damart catalogue…’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Sacha. These clothes are expensive—these clothes have style.’

  ‘But nothing like Mother’s normal choice.’

  ‘Well no, of course not. That’s exactly why we are doing this!’

  ‘I don’t think she’s going to be over the moon.’

  ‘They’ll grow on her. They’ll grow on her because she’s not going to have anything else.’

  This time Vanessa writes a cheque, her first forgery, and it’s good. She’s glad Mother’s is a gold card. She was not prepared for such enormous prices.

  For underwear they go straight to Marks & Spencer. They can hardly push their way through for the rough, eager crowd, but they are not interested in the sales items flopping out of tall baskets, they only want the best. The two packs of knickers are white; they look sensibly square, pinned to the cardboard illustration, with a fierce elastic waist and a simple frill round each leg. They’ve got Mother’s bra size written on the list and Camilla consults it now… 36A… and there’s a demure, serviceable garment, modestly concealing, with a band round the bottom instead of that other uncomfortable-looking rim. The petticoat they add to the pile is cotton, too—a bit like a child’s summer dress: you could go out with it on and not attract attention. The last items they buy from Marks are three pairs of thick black tights, innocent because they are the same make Vanessa wears for school.