A Tale of Two Sisters

by Anna Maxted

  Tim did make a good vinaigrette. I was full of folic acid. I was eating like a wolf again, it was just that my body had yet to catch up. Perhaps I would call him.

  I called Tabitha instead.

  ‘How—’

  ‘Awful!’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry! What’s wrong?’

  Tabitha hissed one word, injecting into it the venom of a snake. ‘Nanny!’

  I paused. How many had she been through? This was Nanny No. 666, surely. ‘Should I . . . come round?’

  ‘You don’t mind seeing the children?’

  I knew it cost her to ask, and yet I heard the challenge in her tone. ‘I’d love to see the children.’

  She said, fast, ‘I said nothing. I’m sorry. I couldn’t imagine your pain and I’m afraid I didn’t want to.’

  ‘That’s very . . . honest of you,’ I said.

  ‘I suppose, Elizabeth, I was surprised that you were as upset as you were. Because it’s terribly common, isn’t it? Jeremy’s cousin had five failed pregnancies, and she’s now a mother of four – a case of be careful what you wish for! But I suppose people react in different ways. I know it’s not my business, but please don’t be scared to try again, is that terribly crass of me to say?’

  I sighed. ‘Only a bit.’

  ‘I was glad you kept away, actually. Dear Tomas is at the stage where he’d put anyone off children, but Celestia is an angel, such a pure and breathtaking little personality, I look at her, and she looks at me, and I think, what a gift, you truly are the light of my life, and I think so sadly of you, Lizbet. I think, poor Lizbet doesn’t know the glorious, unsurpassable joy of a baby, and thank God she doesn’t know what she’s lost, because the pain would crush . . . Sorry. This is why I say nothing. Once I start, my mouth runs away with me. Jeremy often says, “I’m going to go out of the room while you talk,” and I can see why. Lizbet, forgive me, I—’

  ‘It’s really fine, Tabitha,’ I said, in a stiff voice. ‘It would be worse for me if you only thought I’d made a fuss about nothing.’

  ‘Is it fine, Lizbet?’

  ‘Tabitha,’ I said, ‘if it makes you feel better, then, yes. It will be.’

  I was hoping that when I arrived at Next Door, Tim would be lolling mournfully on our upstairs windowsill like Rapunzel. But he wasn’t. I walked slowly and loudly up Tabitha’s path – to give him the chance to spot me – and rang the doorbell. She answered after a minute. I was used to seeing her in crisp tailoring, black, white, with her hair in a sleek chignon, very monochrome. Today her hair was like forked lightning, and she wore purple moleskin trousers, and a red Adidas top – wardrobe desperation, I knew it well.

  ‘Colour, Tabitha?’ I said.

  She laughed, and said, ‘I feel self-conscious and irritable. I’ll change in a minute.’

  Celestia was still on the hip, in a nappy. She’d doubled in size. She had pale skin and blue eyes. She stared right at me, unsmiling. I felt like a bird watcher sighting a golden eagle.

  ‘Hello, Baby!’ I said, thinking, oh, oh, oh.

  Celestia buried her head in her mother’s chest, and kicked her fat little legs like a jockey.

  Tabitha kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘I’ll wash my hands,’ I said. Code for peace and goodwill to all babies.

  But Tabitha didn’t ask if I wanted to hold Celestia and, because she didn’t, I found that I did. I didn’t want to look at Celestia, because I was afraid, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  ‘Can I . . . have a cuddle?’

  Tabitha looked at me. Then she handed me the baby. I held her, the solid, soft, warm weight of her, and sighed. I felt an itchy sensation around my mouth, as if I might want to eat her up like a chocolate.

  ‘Ah-ma!’ said Celestia, and bit me on the shoulder with both teeth, nearly to the bone.

  ‘What a compliment!’ said Tabitha, as I swallowed a scream. ‘She only bites me, and I say to Jeremy, it’s because she loves me so much!’

  I stroked Celestia’s hair, it was softer than goose down. I touched my cheek to her head, and smelled the edible scent of her. And then I had to hand her back.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tabitha.

  I shook my head. There was a dirty nappy on the lounge floor. I didn’t know if to ignore it or stick it in the bin. Tabitha followed my eyes.

  ‘I’ve just changed her,’ she said, quickly.

  I scooped up the nappy, and said, ‘So, what’s with Nanny?’

  Tabitha’s eyes narrowed. ‘Tomas is reeling from all the change in his life: a new sister, a new nursery school. He’s insecure because his routine has been upset, so he’s behaving like Saddam Hussein – no disrespect to Saddam Hussein. Tomas needs extra security and reassurance, and I’m doing my best, but I’m also getting the new business off the ground and Celestia isn’t sleeping. It’s hard.’ She paused. ‘I don’t always treat Tomas as I should.’

  I looked at her.

  ‘I shout, and I sometimes wonder – were a stranger to listen in – if they would know I loved him.’ She gazed at the floor.

  I said, ‘Perhaps it’s good for Tomas to know that he does make you angry if he does a bad thing.’

  ‘I think of when he was born, and I see myself treating that beautiful baby with . . . less respect and care than I should, and I feel evil.’ She added, ‘I expect you think I have some gall, saying this to you.’

  I paused. ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Me, complaining.’

  I considered. ‘You were honest. And you explained. This is you and me talking about normal life.’

  Tabitha put her hand to her throat. ‘I see! Everyday life is your rehab!’

  I paused. ‘Sometimes,’ I said, ‘one bad thing happens – there’s a death or you catch your sleeve on the door handle – and all your latent unhappiness falls in on you like a wet sand bank.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Tabitha, as if I was telling her a bedtime story.

  ‘So . . . if you want to climb out, it helps to identify all the separate grizzles that make up that one big gloop.’

  ‘Is that what you did, Elizabeth?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Understanding a problem might not make it better, but it helps. So what happened with the nanny?’

  Tabitha blinked. ‘Sorry? Oh! The nanny.’ She took a breath. ‘I advertised for a nanny – the agencies – useless – this girl, Sasha, replies. I tell her what I want – she yes, yes, yeses me.’

  Tabitha gazed at me, almost pleadingly. ‘I read her references. I didn’t have time to call them. She has experience – no qualifications. She seemed fun. She turns up yesterday – yet another change for Tomas that fulfils his worst fear – separation from Mummy. So he tests her, tries to squirt her with the hose. A professional childcarer would think, what’s the root cause of the naughtiness? – might he feel threatened? – and work with him to change it. After two hours, this little madam tells me, “I’ve never had trouble bonding with a child before!” Like it’s his fault! He did a wee in our garden, and from the look on her face, you’d have thought he was Prince Charles. He’s three! A nanny, with zero tolerance of the childishness of children! And then, she and Tomas sit in his room, and she must have had a face like a poker, because Tomas lashed out. Children only do that if they’re frightened. She says he told her, “You don’t like me. I’m going downstairs to Mummy and Celestia, people who like me.” Sasha – stupid, stupid girl – says to me, “I hadn’t even told him off!”

  ‘Tomas is a bright, sensitive child – she didn’t have to tell him off, he could sense her loathing! And she turned up for work today, arms folded, in a mint shawl threaded with silver, and wedge heels! She doesn’t even tie back her hair. It’s like she’s auditioning for a shampoo ad! And I asked her to give Celestia her lunch – chicken and mash purée – and Celestia has five bites and turns away. So Sasha puts the bowl to one side!’

  I looked blank without meaning to.

  Tabitha shrieked, ‘You don’t give up on a baby’s lunch aft
er five bites! You sing “The Wheels on the Bus”! You wave bread in their face, then sneak in the boring food when they open their mouth!’

  Tabitha shoved Celestia at me, collapsed onto the sofa and burst into tears.

  ‘Tabitha,’ I said, ‘she sounds awful, very ignorant – but you can get rid of her.’ I stopped. ‘What an unpleasant experience, but you’ve only had her for two days! I don’t quite see why you’re so upset.’

  Tabitha looked up. ‘I don’t quite see why I’m so upset. Maybe it’s witnessing a person actively disliking my child. I hate her. But I’m angry with myself – I chose her. I put Tomas through that experience. I see his bewilderment and his unhappiness, and I feel it’s my fault.’ She looked at me. ‘It’s the wet sand bank. It’s the gloop!’

  I said, ‘Forget the sand bank. You made a mistake. People do. Accept you made a mistake, and correct it. Sack the bitch.’

  Tabitha wiped her nose on her sleeve. The divine Celestia had humanised her mother. ‘You’re right,’ she said. She stood, held out her arms for the baby. ‘When they get back from the park, I’ll sack her. I’ll be the nanny. I’ll work . . . at night!’

  I nodded. I supposed a good friend, or a nosy one, would ask Tabitha to talk through her gloop. But I wasn’t hard enough to play Obi-Wan Kenobi just yet. My arms felt empty. I knew I should offer to mind Celestia while Tabitha made up with Tomas. I couldn’t. Even holding that baby for a brief minute created a dervish of emotions I fought to control. I’d return her after my allotted hours and be flat on the ground with the not-gots.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘I could take Tomas out for a morning. Tomorrow! Would that help you? If the baby slept you might get some work done.’

  Tabitha was silent.

  ‘I would offer to take the baby but . . . I have no experience with babies.’

  Twang!

  ‘That would be nice,’ said Tabitha. ‘That would be helpful.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow. Say, ten?’

  ‘Nine thirty?’

  The following morning, there was still no sign of Tim, despite my noisiest trip-trapping up our neighbours’ path. Tabitha – lurid in another panic outfit – attempted to alert her son to my presence, but Tomas was slumped in front of Nick Jr, mouth open, eyes a-boggle, and apparently incapable of turning his head. I felt a curl of fear.

  ‘Ding dong, the Witch is dead?’ I said.

  Tabitha nodded. ‘I wrote her a cheque. She came back from the park, with a sour face. “We need to talk,” she said. Tomas had chucked sand over her. God! She judged his behaviour as if he was her boyfriend – my boyfriend chucked sand over me! My boyfriend urinated in the garden! My boyfriend tried to squirt me with the hose!’

  ‘But now she’s gone,’ I said.

  Tabitha took a deep breath. ‘Yes!’ She smiled. There were two raspberry pips caught in her teeth. ‘Gone, gone, gone! Now. What will you do with Tomas? I’ve packed his juice beaker, his sun block, his yellow fleece, his sunhat, his snack – raisins and oatcakes – a change of clothes, just in case, but he’s very good, although do monitor any toilet session. You could take him to the playground, although he’ll want to climb to the very top of everything so you must climb with him, and don’t let him out of your sight for a second. If he’s on a ride, and another mother comes along with a child and says, “Your turn in a moment, darling,” smile and pretend you’re deaf. Don’t make Tomas give up his place – no one gives a toss about other people’s children round here, it’s quite accepted! He’ll want an ice cream, but say, “We’ll see, maybe tomorrow,” and here are the wipes, make sure his hands are clean before he has his snack, and he’ll want to find a stick, you might have to play at knights and kill the baddies, and if he’s—’

  ‘Maybe I should write some of this down,’ I mumbled. ‘It’s been a while since Tomas and I . . .’

  Tabitha looked concerned. ‘I know!’ she said. ‘I’ll give Tim a call, ask him to join you, he’s . . . fairly good with Tomas.’

  My heart pounded, because was this my plan all along?

  ‘He’s not that good,’ I heard myself say in a cross voice.

  ‘Oh?’ said Tabitha, and I thought of when Tomas last visited. He had a new Action Man and he and Tim were playing with it.

  Tomas: ‘What’s that line on his face?’

  Tim: ‘A scar.’

  Tomas: ‘Why?’

  Tim: ‘His friends were doing a makeover on him, and the mascara wand slipped.’

  ‘Tim,’ I’d said.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Tim.

  Minutes later, Tim was twirling Action Man around in a pirouette. ‘Da-deedee-da Deedeedee Da-Da-DAH! . . . I’m doing ballet! I’m doing ball-eh! Oh! Here come my friends. What are you doing, Action Man? Humff, I’m doing aikido! Hi-ya! . . .’

  ‘What I mean is, I’d prefer to be with Tomas on my own.’

  Tabitha said. ‘When did you last see Tim?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Why? Is something wrong? Is he working? Or is he . . . socialising?’

  ‘Ask him.’

  I frowned. ‘Tabitha,’ I said, ‘Tim and I broke up.’

  Tabitha smiled. ‘Elizabeth, you made a mistake. People do. Accept you made a mistake, and correct it.’

  ‘Ho ho, Tabitha.’

  But she passed me the phone anyway, and left the room.

  I sighed. Then I rolled my eyes, and dialled.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘It’s me, Lizbet. Um. Look, I’ve borrowed a young man named Tomas for the morning, and I wondered if you might possibly be free to join us for a park visit? I was thinking that you could do with the practice . . .’

  Cassie

  Chapter 34

  Children distract people, like dogs. You could see why a bad marriage might have them, to fill the awkward silences. But in fact, there was no undertone. It was a sunlit pleasure of a morning, and I was crazily pleased that Lizbet had asked me. We took Tomas to the park, a world of a million mothers, buggies and babies. I did wonder that it might be too much for Lizbet, but she fussed after Tomas with a gentleness that I hadn’t seen in her for a while. He had her full attention, she wasn’t thinking of herself.

  At twelve-thirty sharp, we delivered a happy, sand-encrusted Tomas back to his mother.

  ‘Will she mind?’ I said. ‘He looks like a Scotch egg.’

  ‘No,’ replied Lizbet. ‘I believe that dirt is universally recognised as proof of a good time.’

  And then I drove her back to my house for lunch.

  ‘Can you imagine?’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘Not really.’ I grinned.

  ‘That mother.’

  ‘My God! What was it?’

  Lizbet rolled her eyes. ‘I said to her, “Can Tomas borrow the spade to dig a hole?”’

  ‘And she says, “It’s not up to me!” Your face as you had to ask permission from her three-year-old!’

  ‘Honestly! Treat your kids with respect, but there has to be some understanding that the parent has the final say!’

  I said, ‘I don’t think I’m going to be a liberal mother. I think I’ll be quite firm and strict. None of this patting and singing and rocking business, for instance. The baby is going to go plop! in the cot, and go to sleep on its own.’

  Lizbet smiled. ‘You wait. Pregnant women have a thousand ideals, and then the baby comes, and each ideal is knocked down like a skittle. Tabitha used to treat motherhood like an exact science, as if Tomas were a cake she was baking, and he’d only turn out right if she stuck to precise instructions. Now she’s got about three ideals left! I think, when I have a – if I – I would like to be a happy mother. Then I’ll decide on strategy!’

  I liked to hear Lizbet talk like that. Seeing a future instead of one that was scribbled out.

  I had more immediate concerns. What to give my sister for lunch. Three days after banishing George, I’d realised that the Fridge Fairy didn’t exist. If I wanted to eat – which I did, it was the
only thing that stopped the nausea – I actually had to buy the food. Happily, Sophie Hazel Hamilton had alerted me to the fact that certain supermarkets now delivered. You ordered your shop online and, a few days later, it turned up in a van! Fantastic! Less fantastic was the apparent Parkinson’s in my ordering finger. I’d managed to invoke eighteen bottles of bleach and eleven chickens.

  ‘You’ve got all the ingredients for a coq au vin,’ said Lizbet, surveying the fridge with an expert eye. ‘These carrots are only slightly soft. Is this wine ok?’

  I stifled a squeak. ‘That’s too good for cooking!’

  ‘Cassie, that’s such a myth. Don’t you remember the plonk Vivica used to throw into every dish, making it taste like vinegar? If you use nice wine, you get a nice taste.’

  ‘Fine. Use it! How long will it take?’

  ‘Hours. But I’ll make cheese on toast to keep us going. You do have bread, don’t you?’

  Proudly, I opened the freezer compartment, to reveal fifteen seeded batches.

  We were clearing our plates when the doorbell rang.

  ‘George!’ I said. ‘Hello! Come in!’ (It was possible to keep this civil, and I half wished I could video proceedings, to play to my warring clients, show how it could be done.)

  ‘Thank you,’ said George. ‘Hope I’m not disturbing you?’

  ‘Lizbet’s here, actually,’ I said.

  I wasn’t used to courtesy from him. It made a pleasant change. Now he didn’t take me for granted! Instead of his usual – as Aunt Edith would say – schlock-wear, he was smartly dressed, in a lilac open-neck shirt and pressed trousers. He’d recently shaved, his hair was freshly washed, and a delicious lemony scent of aftershave wafted after him. I’d always liked his aftershave. In fact after we were married I discovered I liked it more than his natural scent, which, later, led me to believe that my instincts had been tricked. Too late, I realised that the wearing of cologne for romance purposes messed with evolution. It was a morally dubious exercise comparable to the creation of Jurassic Park.