The Playroom

by Frances Fyfield

  Something from nothing. All that work. Whether through half-baked education or scatter-brain or not, Katherine knew she was not possessed of an analytical mind, but as she sat on All That Work in the form of the bedspread she concluded with a shock that Something from Nothing was very much what she was this morning and if she died now, that could well be the sort of epitaph They might write on her gravestone. There was an oil painting in a gesso frame on the wall opposite, showing a bowl bursting full of anemones: she had chosen that, how lucky she was, such choices, such lovely things to accompany her life. Made her humble, reminded her not to react against David being as removed as he had been with his impatience cutting at them like a whip. Only the prospect of duty visitors of any kind made him like that, darling David. But she still had to remind herself what he was, thinking of him as her darling David while stroking the silk to feel her own tiny stitches, reminding herself, none too subtly but timely, of what she was. ‘I made you,’ she said to the bedspread, ‘and aren’t you lovely?’ Speaking out loud affection for objects loved was not strange for Katherine; merely an expression of delight and admiration although not an eccentricity everyone admired. The habit came from giving herself encouragement to make up for the fact that no one else did. I made you and David made me. No, that was wrong: she had been more like the painting, existing as it was, waiting to be chosen, perhaps pining a little for a good home. A princess waiting for the right courtier, but without any father to please. And all that unusual introspection triggered more of the memories, more of the gratitude. When David was coldly angry, like today, she often took refuge like this. It was hackneyed, it was sentimental: she knew it was, but the formula of romantic reminiscence still worked like a charm.

  Thought of herself was what she did, sitting sewing at a trade stand five years ago, looking after the wares for a man with the improbable name of Claud who had imported all the silk fabric on display, herself clutching part of this very bedspread while looking pretty in front of an already pretty stand for the princely sum of two pounds an hour. Architects, interior designers, retailers large and small, tripping round and looking, not really buying, which was why Claud entrusted her with this task while he lunched, as gregarious, promiscuous Claud loved to lunch in the same way he liked to take unprotesting Katherine to bed and pretend to employ her. Katherine absorbed, working on the bedspread, ready to answer questions about the silks, her long hair framing her face. Then this man, bearing no resemblance to anyone else, tall, solid, dark, smiling and conservative in contrast to all the effete designers, the mere sight of him a glorious shock and the voice even better. ‘Excuse me, I can’t pretend I want to buy any of these ridiculously expensive silks, but when you’ve finished, I would like to buy that . . .’ pointing to the bedspread. She had tucked the hair behind her ears, laughed the way she often laughed then despite all the complications of her life, a big laugh descending to an uncertain chuckle which revealed a clear skin and perfect teeth. ‘You really want this?’ her face twisted comically and one slender hand holding her work. Yes, yes, he had said, I really want this, looking straight down into her eyes. I want this for my house. I’ll come back tomorrow, shall I? Oh yes, do, as Claud reeled back, claiming ownership of everything. Watching the back of the man as he walked away, remembering the words, I really want this. She had worked half the night in a fever but he had not come back until the last day. Talked about nothing, said he was an architect but only looking for things for himself. Pity the bedspread was not finished. She was mesmerized, helpless under Claud’s jealous eyes to prevent the man walking away again, which he did, leaving only a card. Gone more than fifty agonizing yards when she saw his wallet left on the stand, got to her feet in her flowery summer pumps and orange taffeta skirt, grabbed that piece of warm leather and ran after him, pushing through the people, ‘. . . Stop, stop, you’ve left this,’ not realizing in the crush that the dark head, so much taller than the rest, had actually heard and stopped until she cannoned into him. ‘Whoa, what is it?’ both of them facing and smiling, she holding out the wallet like an offering. Him laughing and all of a sudden catching her by the waist and swinging her round in that crowd, so her feet left the ground, a hug so extravagant and unexpected it left her breathless with surprise. Nothing clandestine here, no shame in him at all. Only a meeting at an otherwise unsuccessful trade fair. Guiltily she remembered the abandoning of Claud, so abrupt it was shocking, not deserving the generosity of his forgiveness. But then, he was married himself; no right to be jealous.

  Oh get on, get on. Stop this, it has worked as it always works. Katherine put an end to the reverie. Turned off the switch on the picture of self five years before in long taffeta skirt and hoop earrings, rose off the bed, smoothing the cover, and hurried downstairs. A suggestion of his voice had floated up: a goodbye noise without contact and the sound of the door of the house slamming shut behind his Saturday bad mood. Suddenly she could not bear it and still in her bare feet with the door reverberating as she set out down the stairs, she reached the bottom two steps at a time to see his wallet on the walnut table in the hall. Never forgot anything, what a laugh: he’d be furious and naked without the only thing he ever did forget. Hateful, quite hateful when this ominous moodiness struck. Oh, David, don’t go like this, please: what’s the hurry? She opened the front door to the road, blinded by sunlight, took up the wallet and ran into the street after him. Please, David, don’t, not without a proper goodbye, even for a few hours: I’m supposed to look after you. That was her job and her pride. Down the steps, pink feet twinkling, running after him ungracefully, catching up on the other side of the road with Jeremy just placed in the car. He looked up in surprise, aware before he heard the sound of her slight and flying figure, something comic in her urgency. Unexpectedly, blessedly, he smiled. Caught her in his arms and kissed her neck.

  ‘Hey, hey, what’s the matter? What’s the rush?’

  She put her hands on his shoulders, looked up delighted with the smiling response, the morning’s anxiety swept away.

  ‘You forgot your wallet.’

  ‘Oh, clever girl. Running like that. Anyone would think you loved me.’

  ‘I do. Oh, I do. You know I do . . . Don’t be cross.’

  ‘Shhhh.’ Laughing still. ‘I’m not really cross. The neighbours will hear.’ The smile fading but not disappearing. ‘Kath, you aren’t wearing shoes on your feet and you’ve left the door open.’

  Katherine was controlled now, mollified and happy. ‘Yes, I know, I’m not staying. See you later.’

  ‘Keep Mother happy. Bye, darling. Can you manage?’

  ‘Course I can. Anything for you.’

  Balance restored. Everything was going to be all right. Katherine guarded the open door, waved him away and heard the friendly toot of the car horn with pleasure, wriggling her toes which were cold from the pavement. Stayed where she was for a moment. This morning she was wearing a cream skirt, nothing as lurid as that orange taffeta which would never have been accompanied then by the tiny little diamond stud earrings she wore now. So lucky. Something from nothing, waving to a man who was soon coming back. Today and every day. She hugged her arms to her chest. Nothing to do with being cold.

  When Susan Pearson Thorpe came out of her house, taking to her car her own logical mind and a bundle of goods for the ritual trip to the country, she had only managed a glimpse of that perfect skirt belonging to Beauty next door, noted with satisfaction the absence of shoes. Also noted, quite consciously, something she had regarded as the hallmark of the girl but not noticed in a while of brief exchanges, not that Susan noticed much first thing in the morning. Other people’s capacity for happiness always amazed her. Katherine, she thought with slight sourness and a headache, had that. Look at her. How refined she had grown in the years she had lived here, but not beyond the point of standing on her own doorstep and yelling, ‘What a lovely day,’ as she was now. And really, I mean absolutely meaning it. Katherine always meant what she said. No, it was not joie d
e vivre she was witnessing, although Katherine was certainly capable of exhibiting that without being able to define it; nor was it spontaneity, because Katherine was really quite reserved, but what she found remarkable was this ability to throw oneself into things without always, at the same time, thinking of something else. Susan supposed that after shouting these formal greetings and remarks like what a lovely day, Katherine would go indoors and throw herself at the bloody housework since they didn’t have any help, just like she’d thrown herself at the decorating of the house, only coming out of doors to glow with excitement, pregnant, talking about paintwork all the time. Such a girlish girl, really, and not what you might call worldly-wise, or not so’s you’d notice from Susan’s end of the spectrum.

  ‘You off for the weekend?’ Katherine yelled, still unnecessarily loud. She always spoke as if wanting to know. The same way she offered to help with something she could do, a nice eagerness, absolutely genuine. Dear Christ, thought Susan: there really are people like that. Cheerful and fit and healthy-looking. There must be a catch.

  ‘Shall I help you with those bags? They look awfully heavy.’

  ‘Awfully’ was a word Katherine never used to say. Saying it now meant an approved addition to her accentless English, a sign of moving in the right circles, but there was never a hint of affectation.

  ‘No, don’t bother. Sebastian will do it and anyway, you’ve got not shoes on. There’s some rather horrible-looking dirt on the pavement. Might even be our dog.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Katherine, grinning still, but slightly abashed. ‘I didn’t think of that.’

  ‘Well, you should.’ Susan had not meant to sound so severe, but Katherine’s mood survived the reminder.

  ‘Have a good time then. Bye.’

  Katherine meant to go back inside and did indeed step back over her own threshold, listening with one ear for sounds from Jeanetta indoors, but still watching covertly the grumbling of the neighbours as they loaded their way into that huge Volvo of theirs which resembled a hearse, Susan just a little bit breathless, probably from nagging all the time and barking at her children. She was really too plump, poor thing, thought Katherine, remembering the days of being a little like that herself and actually pitying Susan for it, since being plump had been awful. Perhaps this didn’t matter if you were like Susan, a bit of a feminist and a frightfully clever career woman, doing an important job (or so Susan always said in her condescending way) and earning stacks of money. Too clever and far too aggressive for easy communication between Katherine and herself, which one of them regretted. Katherine embraced friendship whenever it was offered: she would accept with wide-open arms.

  None of this stopped her noticing that the progress of this up-market family into their up-market car was slightly funny, or from thinking that Susan Pearson Thorpe was, in her own intimidating way, a frightful snob and slightly ghastly, to use one of Susan’s own favourite words, but she would have welcomed friendship all the same. Katherine giggled. Susan thought she was superior without hearing herself carping at her husband, sounding like a fishwife when she had been a bit pissed last time they came to supper. Calling her Sebastian a bore, which he was, rather, but still she should not have said so in public. I might not have those brains, Katherine thought, but I am nicer, and I’m glad I’ll never look like that, all bouncy and bossy.

  But laugh as she might, the fact that she was, somehow and all too often, clumsy in her dealings with others, was a feature those next door seemed to underline, together with many of the friends to whom she had been introduced. Mary had said something about it, in one of many lectures, long ago. You should be more selective, really you should, Kath. Don’t expect everyone to like you just because you want to be liked, it doesn’t work like that. David’s advice, roughly similar, all of it bringing about a withdrawal from her previous habit of offering affection like a puppy. Between them, she had acquired as a wife the shy reserve of her manners, and from far earlier than that was learned the lesson Thou shalt not be a nuisance. Nor talk too much. Never.

  The Volvo drove away, leaving the street empty apart from a vagrant pausing by the railing outside the opposite house. A new vagrant, whom Katherine noticed with a merely passing interest, poor things, common in these parts, but not at all disturbing today, though they sometimes were. She used to give them money if she had any, but other people said you shouldn’t or you’d never get rid. Still hugging her arms across her chest, Katherine smiled at him. Not much wrong with the world. Everything was all right. Except for those toys upstairs, waiting to be missed.

  CHAPTER 2

  Monday again, the first of the month. The three women sat at the table by the window, two facing out, the third facing in. Monica and Jenny had bustled to their seats, chirping triumph at securing the only table with an entertaining view of the street, while in the way which was now usual, Katherine hung back, precise in her movements but slower, armed with a heavier bag, slightly deferential. The other two were so brisk and so certain, seated with coats accommodated before Monica had asked, ‘Did you want to sit this side, Katherine? I always want to call you Kate but you don’t suit Kate. Would you like this seat? All you can see is us,’ sitting comfortably in anticipation of refusal.

  ‘No, no, of course not. I’m fine here, really.’ She was cramped in the window against a dusty plant, looking gratefully towards her companions and the interior of Italian smells, pleased to sit still and pleased to see them. ‘Is this place cheap, expensive, or middling?’ she asked, merely conversational.

  ‘Very reasonable,’ said Monica. Reasonable by Monica’s standards did not mean cheap. ‘That’s why we come here so often. Service sluggish, food excellent. But you must have been here before, haven’t you, surely?’

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘Course you must. Come on, pass the cardboard. I’m starving.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Jenny. ‘Pasta . . . Oh no . . . garlic bread, puddings . . . Wine? One between three? None for you, you are strong-willed. Perrier again. What you eating, Katherine?’

  ‘I’m not terribly hungry. Just the salad, I think.’

  ‘What? Come on, come on . . .’ Monica was the loudest, bossiest, largest of the three, a contrast to Katherine’s slenderness, which she did not always envy, even with the interesting refinements of a pale face set off by high collar and beige cloth like paint with a dull, expensive sheen. Monica was wearing a cardigan which she called the dreamcoat, multicoloured, covered with birds and elephants cavorting together. ‘The kids love it,’ she explained. ‘So does the office. Besides, it hides a multitude of sins.’ Katherine loved it too. Jenny wore neat black trousers, pristine blouse slightly marred by egg stain on the cuff which she shuffled out of sight, an automatic reaction against Katherine’s comparative elegance. Katherine had the knack of making her feel the unplucked eyebrows, bristly legs and clumsier shoes, since while Jenny always meant to be neat, the resolution rarely survived the early morning battle with two children. By that time nothing mattered as much but she always wondered how Katherine emerged so unscathed.

  ‘Come on, come on. Oh, I say, Kate, did you manage to bring those samples? Jenny said you might be able . . .’

  ‘I’m loaded,’ said Katherine, smiling and gesturing the carpet bag beside her. ‘One set each. One dozen pieces, one metre square. Awfully nice, I hope you think. Should be enough to make a few cushions, small table-cloth, that kind of thing. Anything else you want, you can use my account at the shop and I’ll get you something off. Sort of discount.’

  The two window-facing women looked at one another. ‘Oh, you are an angel,’ Monica almost shouted. ‘Tell you what, lunch is on me.’

  ‘No, no, I couldn’t possibly . . .’

  ‘Oh yes you could, you could, let’s look . . . No, food first.’

  ‘You paying for me as well?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘Not bloody likely. You don’t carry bags of swag like good old Kate. Come on, come on, food. Only got an hour. Well, maybe a bit more. Where�
��ve you put your shopping, Jen, by the door? Don’t know why you think no one would steal all that food. I sure as hell would.’

  Monica was nice, Jenny thought, an irrelevant thought for a friend she had known for years. She ceased to think of them in terms of nice, nasty, clever, beautiful: they were simply there, totally acceptable, defensible against any outside criticism, or at least Monica was. They didn’t discuss their own virtues much, save to dwell on how busy they were, or how guilty. Monica was there like a highly coloured rock, met over lunch or kitchen tables for ever. No face swam into focus when she thought of Monica, no comments, except nice, funny. But with Katherine, the newer recruit, picked up as Monica put it, via a successful husband, the face was still novel enough for scrutiny and words, such as fresh, pretty, elegant race-horse, pale and above all, sweet; the proportion of sugar unimportant and undecided. She watched Katherine in the act of leaning over the back of her chair, adjusting her handbag. Must be worried about someone pinching it, well brought up girl, rich enough to take care of money. They might all be bursting at the seams with mortgages, cars, school fees, nannies and the second house, but there were always those times when cash was short for lunch. Monica was paying today and as Jenny was also recipient of Katherine’s bounty, she would share the cost. Jenny looked at Katherine. No, this one would never bear the description of good old Kate, wasn’t the right dimensions for good old anything, somehow lacking in Monica’s tousled sophistication, but sweet, very sweet.

  ‘Katherine, where the devil did you get that dress? Wonderful, makes you look like a pencil.’

  ‘She is like a pencil,’ Monica shouted, peering over the menu.

  ‘Oh . . . This dress?’ Katherine flustered slightly, pointing to the high linen collar. Of course I meant this dress, what other dress would I mean, thought Jenny, mildly irritated, noticing for the first time how Katherine repeated like a parrot, the way she had when first met and even did in her own house.