A Tale of Two Sisters

by Anna Maxted

  Barnaby, ever gallant, responded. ‘Your Honour! Madam! I have absolutely no notice of this . . . ambush! I would ask for an adjournment in order to consult with my client and take instruction.’

  The judge said, ‘Dough –’ her nose was blocked – ‘this does appear to be relevant. Continue, Ms Montgomery.’

  I smiled, and dolled out another three photocopies. ‘Mrs Fitzgerald, is this your mother’s handwriting?’

  ‘Yes,’ squeaked Alissa.

  ‘Have you seen this letter before?’

  ‘No,’ squeaked Alissa.

  I nodded. ‘Can you confirm that there is a bank account in her name holding premium bonds of yours that you’ve cashed, totalling four thousand, three hundred and fifty-seven pounds? Can you confirm this, Mrs Fitzgerald?’

  Alissa nodded.

  ‘Pardon?’ I simpered.

  ‘Yes,’ she whimpered.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and waddled as primly as my great stomach would allow, back to my seat.

  ‘Blinding!’ said Hubert hoarsely. I shot him a look of disgust. I felt as low as a worm. And dizzy.

  The judge gave me a disapproving stare over her spectacles. I could have sworn she had 20/20 vision and they were plain glass. ‘I quite see that you had to put this, Ms Montgomery,’ she said in a stern voice, ‘but you did not give us advance notice, did you?’

  ‘No, Your Honour.’

  ‘Have you any other such points, Ms Montgomery?’

  ‘No, Your Honour.’

  ‘Good.’

  How dared Hubert reduce me to this?

  ‘It was his fault,’ I wanted to shout. ‘I know a piffling four grand isn’t relevant! But you don’t know what he’s like! He wanted me to prove she was a lesbian!’

  The shame roared loud in my ears, and I only woke to reality when the judge said, ‘I will give judgement next Monday morning at ten a.m.!’

  ‘Eh?’ whispered Hubert. ‘Why wait? Law unto herself, bloody nutter!’

  I didn’t bother correcting him, just sighed inwardly and adjusted my diary.

  I took a taxi home, digging in my bag for my lip salve. Get me out of here. Make it better. My fingers closed on an envelope and I pulled it out. It was addressed to Mrs Lucille Reeves. I jammed it back in. Did every occurrence today have to remind me what a coward I was? I had indeed written a letter to my aunt. Maybe one day I’d have the guts to post it.

  Lizbet

  Chapter 36

  Becoming a journalist seemed an easy option when I was aged eighteen, as it involved no work. But fourteen years later, unbecoming a journalist was proving harder, as there was nothing else I was qualified to do, not even gardening – although I did own a hoe. Meanwhile, Fletch had a friend who worked on Ford Week. The magazine had a column that involved interviewing celebrities (any person mentioned in the Daily Mirror more than twice) about their favourite Ford. No one wanted to do it, as barely any celebrities owned a Ford, so they gave it to me. Fletch also knew the editor of Pussies Galore!

  ‘Fletch,’ I’d said sharply, when he mentioned it. ‘I’m not working for a porn mag!’

  ‘On my mother’s life, this is a magazine about cats. They’re in uproar. A week ago their chief sub defected to Doggy Style.’

  ‘Oh, stop,’ I said. But it was true.

  I called the editor, and she was distraught. ‘I know that leaving to go to another cat magazine would be worse from a business angle. But to go to a publication that celebrates mutts . . .’

  ‘Celebrates what?’

  ‘Dogs! How could she? It’s so hurtful!’ She sniffed. ‘Fletch says you’re pedantic and you know everything there is to know about cats. Ok. So, what did Cardinal Richelieu, Charles Dickens and Florence Nightingale have in common?’

  ‘Mm . . . they all owned cats?’

  ‘Well done!’

  ‘In ancient Egypt, the terms “maau”, “mau-mai”, “maon”, and “mau” all meant what?’

  ‘Er . . . cat?’

  ‘Excellent!’

  ‘A lilac-cream is a what?’

  ‘A chocolate!’

  ‘No, Elizabeth. It’s a cat. It’s a diluted form of tortoiseshell. But you did very well. Would you be able to do Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday for the next two weeks, and we’ll see how we go?’

  It was going fine. The office was cosy and informal – the features editor bought her white Persian in every day in a basket – and the junior sub was a compulsive tea-maker. The editor was incensed one day, because Your Cat was persuading bestselling authors to write short stories involving cats, and ‘We have no one! Elizabeth! Can you write a fictional tale – or tail! That’s what we’ll call it: “Fictional Tails”! – Elizabeth, I’m sure you can do it – I mean, fiction – pah! You make it up! Anyone can do it! We’ll introduce you on the cover as “Bestselling Author, Elizabeth Montgomery” – which is true: you write for us, and we’re the third bestselling cat magazine in the UK!’

  ‘How many cat magazines are there in the UK?’

  ‘Three. Now. Of course, there is one proviso. The story has to involve a—’

  ‘Dog?’

  ‘Gosh, no, that would be disastrous! A—’

  ‘Cat?’

  ‘Elizabeth, you’re psychic!’

  Pussies Galore! couldn’t be described as the high life, but it amused me, and Ford Week was a surreal contrast. So while my career wasn’t exactly on the up and up (more the across and down) I no longer dreaded going to work in the mornings.

  I dreaded coming home.

  I’d made my peace with Vivica and our father (not that they’d noticed), and Cassie too, just about. But it wasn’t enough. Ever since I’d held Celestia, the fact had bounced around my head like a ping-pong ball: I want one of those.

  I was ready to try for another baby.

  Tim’s.

  Which meant, if I were to approach Tim, and he were to refuse me, I’d have to wave off my hopes and dreams for ever. I thought of Cassie, receiving the box of documents from Vivica and our father, and keeping it, unopened, in a dark corner for all those years. When you feared the truth that much, it was better not to know. Although, had she acted sooner, the outcome might have been different. As it was, she’d left it too late, missed her chance of knowing the woman who’d given birth to her. Were my fears of rejection going to make it too late for me – would our wonderful babies wait in the wings for all eternity?

  I couldn’t think about it. I preferred to put my energies into fussing after Cassie – the guilt hangover was a hard one to cure. Not that she let me fuss. (I found a Perfect Pregnancy Kit, containing pre-natal massage oil ‘with nourishing sweet almond oil blended with pure essential oils of lavender, ginger, and eucalyptus,’ and anti-stretch oil, ‘a rich softening blend of avocado and rosehip . . . with lavender, neroli, frankincense, and mandarin.’ I couldn’t tell Cassie what I felt for her, but I hoped that if she read each label, it would be as good as a love letter.)

  I handed over the goods on a Friday Night – the only time we ever got to meet. Friday Nights these days were a reduced affair, just Cassie, me, and our parents. It wasn’t easy, and I longed for a jolly cousin to visit from Acapulco or Hawaii, and inject some fun into proceedings. Alas, I was hard pressed to think of a cousin of ours who could in all fairness be described as ‘jolly’ – and they all lived in unfun places like Dollis Hill, where they were welcome to stay.

  Cassie and I would arrive at eight, and Cassie would say, ‘Mummy, are these fishballs fresh?’

  And Vivica would say, ‘Yes! Of course they are, don’t be ridiculous!’

  And our father would say, ‘Are those the fishballs that have been in the fridge since Tuesday, Vivica?’

  And Vivica would say, ‘Well, you’re the one always telling me to waste not, want not!’

  Our father would then eat twelve stale fishballs to allow both parties to save face (and presumably to ensure the health of his unborn grandchild). I would ring the next day – bad Jew alert – to than
k them for ‘a nice evening’ (I felt more comfortable in a moral sense if I avoided the word ‘dinner’), and our father would answer in a weak rasp, throat hoarse from vomiting, saying, ‘Of course it’s not food poisoning, it’s a stomach bug!’

  There was one Friday Night – Cassie was about seven months pregnant – where she looked as if she had eaten one of Vivica’s fishballs.

  ‘Are you alright?’ I said. ‘You look pale.’

  She nodded, unconvincingly. ‘Fine. I was hoping to get shot of Hubert Fitzgerald yesterday, but the judge decided to string it out till Monday.’

  ‘That’s annoying.’ But it didn’t account for a complexion straight out of a flour barrel. ‘And how is it going with George?’

  She tensed. ‘He only wants to take me for every penny, the house, car, everything. And he’s planning to fight me for custody of Cleetus.’

  ‘Cleetus?’

  ‘Cleetus the Foetus.’

  ‘Cassie! Are you . . . I mean . . . er, it’s an interesting name . . . ah, I . . . do you know it’s a boy, er . . .’

  She smiled then, a real smile, not a grimace. ‘It’s a holding name. A working title. I don’t know the sex.’

  My brain was pedalling hard to catch up. ‘Wait. George wants the house? He wants to bring up baby while you see it at weekends? I wouldn’t trust him with a houseplant! He really meant that?’

  She nodded, and the skin around her eyes turned pink.

  ‘What do his parents think of this?’ I said.

  She shrugged. ‘I haven’t heard from them. Either they’re furious with me, or they’re still on holiday. But George is their golden boy. Whatever he wants, they want.’ Then she smiled – a fake, this time. ‘Oh, well. I’m sure it’ll all work out.’

  ‘Of course it will,’ I said. But I didn’t believe it.

  I wanted to discuss it with her, but I was scared to. The critic in my head crossed her arms, and curled her lip. Oh, Elizabeth. The horse that always backs off at the final fence. You just can’t face the fight, you’re forever avoiding confrontation, because you’re weak.

  I’m not weak, I replied, feebly. I do not avoid confrontation. I took those black avocados back to the supermarket.

  The Return of the Black Avocado! Change the record! The pinnacle of all your achievements. We’ll put it on your gravestone! How I faced down the junior manager and his teenage acne in the local supermarket. Man, it was tough – guns, knives, few survivors, then he forgot to call you ‘Madam’ . . .

  I shut my eyes, shook my head. Then I grabbed my coat and caught a cab.

  Mrs Hershlag was too much of a lady to sit opposite a guest with her mouth hanging open, so after three seconds she shut it. Mr Hershlag stared at his wife and shook his head. His grip tightened on the armrests of his chair, and I noticed that his hands were gnarled with arthritis. Then he turned his gaze on me, his face so full of rage that I nearly whimpered. I placed my china teacup on its saucer with a clatter, and braced myself to be shouted at.

  ‘I’m ashamed!’ cried Mr Hershlag. ‘Ashamed!’

  Of me? I was about to squeak. But you’re not even my parents!

  ‘Ashamed of my own son!’ he went on. ‘That a son of mine would even think of doing such a thing! To his own wife! To his own child! Over my dead body!’ He lurched towards the cake knife and snatched it up. ‘Wait till I see George! I tell him, “You do this, it’s like you take this knife and kill me!”’

  ‘Ivan,’ said Mrs Hershlag, ‘put down the knife. Elizabeth isn’t used to it.’

  Mr Hershlag put down the knife (after cutting me an enormous square of lemon cake with quaking fingers).

  Mrs Hershlag dabbed at the corner of her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘George has told us none of this. He said that Cassie and he were going through a difficult patch, and we were happy to have someone living in the house for the summer. He said she had a lot on at work, and that we were to leave her alone. I don’t like to call the house anyway, I don’t like to intrude, you see. And Cassie is usually so good at keeping us up to date. Better than George. We only got back to London last week. We had no idea they were thinking of divorce! This is devastating! Devastating! At such a time! The baby’s due any minute! How will she manage? Would you like stewed apple and cinnamon with that, dear? I’ll—’

  The front door slammed, and a voice shouted, ‘I’m ho-ome!’

  ‘George!’ roared Mrs Hershlag in a voice that made me jump about a foot in the air. ‘Get in here!’

  There was a rustle, and George appeared at the door in cords and a navy cagoule. His face paled when he saw me.

  Mr Hershlag heaved himself up and hobbled bow-legged towards his son. Then he grabbed his earlobe, and George screamed, ‘Ow!’

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ shouted Mr Hershlag. ‘Elizabeth says you bullying Cassandra, telling her you’ll take away her home and all her stuff! You tell her she can’t even see her own baby? It’s rubbish! Rubbish! For crying out loud, what’s the matter with you? You don’t even tell us you’re divorcing?’

  ‘Dad,’ said George through gritted teeth, ‘you’re hurting my ear.’

  Mr Hershlag gave George’s ear a yank.

  ‘Argh!’

  Mrs Hershlag stood up and jabbed a finger at George. ‘You think you’re getting money off her? I’ll tell you this! You’re not taking a penny, do you hear me? Not a penny! What’s wrong with you? Haven’t you any decency, any pride? You want money, you earn it, you don’t take hers, you don’t take it off your wife and child! What kind of a man are you? And what’s this nonsense you’re talking about the baby living with you! You don’t know one end of a baby from the other! I won’t let it happen, George, do you hear me? I put my foot down! This is my grandchild we’re talking about! I’ll have no bad feeling between you and Cassandra, and I tell you why – because she’s a wonderful girl and we love her, and because you and your spite are not going to come between me and my first grandchild! As long as I live and breathe,’ Mrs Hershlag puffed hard in George’s face. ‘I’m surprised she put up with you for as long as she did!’

  Mr Hershlag tugged at George’s ear. ‘You hear?’

  ‘No,’ muttered George. ‘You’ve probably damaged the entire ear apparatus permanently.’

  Mr Hershlag tugged harder. ‘I said, you HEAR?’

  ‘Yes!’ roared George. ‘Alright! I hear!’

  Mrs Hershlag pointed at a hard chair. ‘Sit,’ she said. George sat. ‘Now, you listen to me. Whatever Cassie wants, you agree. Do you understand?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Or by my life –’ piped up Mr Hershlag – ‘we leave this house to a cat’s home!’

  ‘There’s no need to threaten me,’ said George in a sulky voice.

  ‘So,’ continued his mother. ‘I suggest you ring Cassie right now, in front of us all, and tell her what you’ve decided. Then you pass the phone to me because I’d like to apologise on your behalf, because, God knows, I went wrong somewhere. Then you ring the lawyer, tell him of the change of plan. You get him to write a legal letter, saying that you will contest nothing, and you give one copy to us, and one to Cassie.’ She turned to me. ‘Elizabeth, is that satisfactory?’

  I grinned at George, who slumped in his hard chair. Then I nodded, and said, ‘Very!’

  Chapter 37

  I caught the bus home with a silly grin on my face, which meant that I got a double seat to myself. George had a nerve. Tim would never behave like that to me, no matter how bad things got.

  And how bad had they got? I’d made them get bad, because I was in such a fury at my life that I’d wanted to destroy it. Thing was, when my laptop malfunctioned, I wanted to hurl it through the window, yet I had the common sense to hold back. Why couldn’t I apply the same principle to my relationship, which was a lot more precious than my laptop?

  Tim knew everything about me. He knew I liked to sleep with one ankle on top of the duvet (otherwise I got too hot) and my ears covered (otherwise I got too cold). H
e knew I liked to keep each component of a meal separate on my plate (Vivica would dump the gravy on top of the peas on top of the potato on top of the meat until the food resembled a rubbish tip). He knew that I hated sitting in a car poring over a map – I liked to devise a route in the comfort of my own kitchen. The only thing Tim didn’t know was how to prevent a miscarriage.

  I needed to see him – I needed to see him so much, I didn’t even stop off at Fletch’s on the way, to scrub up nice. Although, I did wipe the grease off my nose with the back of my hand. (In a long-term relationship this is what counts for grooming.) As I walked fast towards our house – or his house – I thought about what I knew about him.

  I knew that if he lost his keys, mobile or wallet, they were either in the car, a pocket or his rucksack. (After over thirty years of living in his own head, Tim still didn’t know his own hiding places.) I knew that Tim often talked with his mates about how much he’d enjoy shooting dead various animals (rabbits, pheasants, deer), but the one time he’d got it together to go fishing, he’d released all the live bait into the garden because he felt sorry for it. I knew that if Tim were sitting in a café eating chips and five lads made a run for it without paying, Tim would chase after them and encourage them to extract money from a cashpoint to pay the nice lady owner (who would then treat him to a full English breakfast, which he’d eat grinning). That was the man I’d quit on.

  It had been intensely annoying to me that everyone – Vivica, Cassie, Aunt Edith, the Man in the Moon – had been pressing me to get back with Tim. After all, no matter how well-matched we appeared in public, none of them actually knew what our relationship was like when we were alone. For all they knew he was beating me to a pulp, and I was slowly poisoning him with salt. It was sheer coincidence that our relationship was wonderful and that in fact, they were all right.

  Tim opened the door with a towel round his waist and his stomach sucked in.