The Playroom

by Frances Fyfield

  Damn, I’ve left the tonic downstairs. I really should keep it up here, in my study. Sebastian and I have a study each to maintain mutual independence, though Christ alone knows what he does in his, I don’t like to ask. His faces the back, with a small window. I face the front to avoid the updrift of all those stories and rhymes from the basement and because I bagged the bigger room so I can walk up and down, look out of the window between turns and see what gives in the road. Not a lot, usually. There are thirty-three houses in this street, usually forty cars with about one foot between each, makes the street approx. four hundred feet long, that can’t be right . . . I must stop counting, most annoying, really. Other times, I lean right out of the window, elbows on the ledge, staring up and down, thinking quite inconsequential things, like what a funny basement area the Allendales have, uphill from ours, iron railings like ours with no room at the bottom for the biggish flat the Harrisons have got here. The Allendales only have space for storage and some kind of workroom, I think, and if I don’t stop leaning out, people will think I’m a bit touched or something, not that I give a tuppenny damn about what people think. People are either stupid or boring, most of the time.

  Tuppenny rice, half a pound of . . . They were singing that in the garden earlier, all the children. Tuppenny rice, chance would be a fine thing this day and age. I need a break from figures and right on cue we have footsteps on the stairs, knock on the door. You can tell by the wheezing how this stair climber is old Harrison. Couldn’t possibly be my workaholic Sebastian who never sees his own home before nine o’clock and looks like a bat in daylight even then, zonked by work and usually monosyllabic. ‘Come in,’ I yell, glad to be found at the desk instead of by the window, hiding the neat gin, waiting for the ponderous opening of the door. There they are, framed like a picture. Harrison and dog, equally decrepit.

  ‘Evening, Mrs Pearson. Eileen’s got the babes downstairs in the kitchen. Ready for bed, I reckon.’

  ‘But it’s only 6.30.’

  ‘Time for a bit of Tee Vee, then,’ he says doggedly, about as subtle as margarine. The dog ambles over, able to manage five steps without sitting down.

  ‘You mean it’s time the mob were out of your hair?’

  He shuffles a bit: that’s exactly what he means, poor old Harrison, five times a grandfather, never reckoned to be living at his age in a basement, something he always sees as a bit of a disgrace, surrounded by someone else’s children, but he can’t go yet since there’s no one else to do the chores round here and it isn’t going to be me. Housework bores me rigid and one did not battle with a career to clean bloody pans and nursemaid children. He shuffles again, smiles slowly.

  ‘Course I don’t mean that, Mrs Pearson. Eileen’d like a word with you, though.’ Oh God, I bet she would.

  Downstairs, me fast, Harrison professionally slow in all his movements in case anyone should think he could go quicker, dog clattering behind. There in the kitchen, surprisingly pink, clean and glad to see me, my children, kept under starter’s orders.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy . . . Look at me!’

  Cannoning from table to chair in her red pyjamas, four-year-old Samantha holds a yoghurt pot in her teeth with the rim of it balanced on the end of her nose, draws attention to this as well as her new slippers. Mickey Mouse with long whiskers appliquéd to the front of these, making her feet look extra large and ridiculous, and I guess Mrs Harrison chose them since I did not. Sammy has dark curly hair, very piercing eyes, a definite face. I am not a sentimentalist by any manner of means, but this second of my children, born by mistake in my fortieth year, is a creature I could find almost edible, supposing I had the time. She squirms on to my lap and holds each foot over my eyes for inspection and I wish I had a fraction of that agility. Meanwhile, Mark, a sterner creature in the wisdom of his seven years, consents to stand within the circle of my other arm, but only briefly. Mrs Harrison (I never get used to calling her Eileen) hovers portentously but this, too, is quite normal. Both she and Harrison are more at home in my kitchen than I.

  ‘Had a good day?’ I ask, heart sinking slightly as it always does before the ritual recitation of ritual moans. She disapproves of me more than slightly, working mothers remaining the mystery of her universe, but she cannot say so because she doesn’t dare.

  ‘Not so bad,’ she says. ‘Took the lot to Regent’s Park, didn’t we? Seen all the animals, didn’t we just?’ She turns to the children for confirmation. They nod, and Mark takes up the story.

  ‘We saw lions,’ he said. ‘Very very, big.’ ‘The biggest in the world,’ adds Samantha. ‘. . . And one of them got out of its cage,’ said Mark, pushing her aside in rising excitement. ‘. . . And ate a boy,’ she interrupted, stealing his thunder. ‘Everything but his shoes,’ Mark finished. ‘. . . And they give whole cows and horses to the crocodiles,’ he began again, almost shouting. ‘No, they don’t,’ scoffed Samantha. ‘Only pigs and chickens. I saw.’

  ‘Do they really do that?’ I ask doubtfully, looking at Mrs Harrison over the heads. She shrugs and smiles.

  ‘Do, do, do,’ shrieks Samantha, wriggling on my lap, still admiring her feet. ‘Dogs as well,’ said Mark, determined on the last word. ‘For breakfast?’ I tease. ‘No,’ he mumbles, ever so slightly ashamed of himself in the realization of what I may and may not know, ‘only for lunch, silly,’ he finishes lamely. I frown at him: he really shouldn’t fib like that.

  At least he knows when he exaggerates. Samantha, being younger and more prone to it, doesn’t. I once heard her telling the postman he couldn’t come in because there were spiders in the kitchen. As big as pans, she said, lots of them, so the postman imagines we have cockroaches. She also told a decorator there were snakes behind the walls which poked their heads out of the light bulbs after dark. Marvellous, but much as I love these tales (which often involve their own daring and lion-taming in our insignificant garden), I’m not sure if I entirely like the tendency. God alone knows what stories Mrs H tells them; frightfully lurid, I expect, but since I’ve abdicated the care of both of them to her so comprehensively, I’ve decided not to ask although I’m aware of it all the same. Tall stories and nursery rhymes; she knows them all and I know not to believe my children, even now. The hovering has changed into a fidget. Mr Harrison will be waiting for his tea. Probably sick of the sound of tuppenny rice and wanting to eat it.

  ‘Well, and how were the Allendales today?’

  Samantha giggled. ‘Jeanetta went in the duck pond. She nearly drownded.’

  ‘Did she?’ I ask Mrs H.

  ‘She did indeed, Mrs Pearson. Go into the pond, I mean,’ she adds, seeing my glance. ‘She’s a handful, Mrs Pearson, really she is. Had my work cut out, I can tell you, what with these two and baby Jeremy in his pushchair. Getting them home was a problem.’

  ‘She was all covered in slime,’ chants Mark, ‘like a lizard, all green and things . . .’

  ‘So she was, wasn’t she, my pet,’ agrees Mrs Harrison. ‘She certainly was. Put it all over everybody, shrieking fit to bust . . .’

  ‘She liked it though,’ said Samantha earnestly, quick to reassure me. ‘Jeanetta loves getting dirty.’

  ‘And that’s what I wanted to ask you, Mrs Pearson,’ said Mrs H, before the two of them dragged her from the point of the story which obviously had purposes other than illustrating both the traumas of her day. ‘. . . Wondered if you’d speak to Mrs Allendale? I don’t like to, not for me to do, really. Oh I suppose I could when she comes to collect, but it’d be better coming from you, if you see what I mean. Would be much better coming from you.’

  ‘What would?’ I ask, feeling the familiar threat of irritation. These children are her concern; why can’t she bloody talk to next door, and if she thinks Katherine Allendale is too high a cut above her for familiar speech, she’s way off beam.

  ‘Would be better you speaking to Mrs Allendale about Jeanetta’s clothes, if you could, Mrs Pearson.’ Eileen Harrison’s voice has sunk to a conspiratorial whisper
which is designed to exclude the children, but only ensures their ears are pinned back for maximum input.

  ‘. . . Her clothes, you see, Jeanetta’s. When she comes here, bless her, she nearly always needs a change of clothes, never has them. Fact, what she does have on her back are a disgrace if you ask me. Worn and thin and always too small. A disgrace, I say, don’t know what the woman thinks of . . .’

  ‘That will do, Mrs Harrison,’ I interrupt. I cannot have her criticizing Katherine Allendale, especially in front of the children. I can criticize: Mrs Harrison cannot. ‘No wonder the child always grizzles,’ she finishes haughtily, very aware of the reproach. ‘Jeanetta’s very fat, Mrs Harrison.’ This is meant to conciliate, get us back to even ground.

  ‘Plump, well yes, she is, a bit bonny, but she must have more clothes. I usually wash whatever she’s got and half the time, like this evening, she’s running around in Mark’s pyjamas, ’cos I’ve nothing else to fit her. Can’t you tell her, Mrs Allendale, I mean? It’s a disgrace, I have to say it is.’

  ‘I don’t mind her having my pyjamas.’ This was Mark’s contribution. Exceptionally kind little boy, my son. ‘I really don’t mind at all.’

  He might not mind, but I do. They may be very nice et cetera, and the arrangement convenient, but I do not like next door’s lump running round in my son’s pyjamas, don’t want her inside his trousers, not at any stage, thank you, including now. ‘Yes,’ I tell Mrs Harrison. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll mention it. When I get the chance. And thanks so much for the zoo trip. Jolly noble of you, I must say.’ Christ, I’m a hypocrite sometimes: so what if she has a hard life. She’s paid, isn’t she? Mollified, she collects Eric, who was clearing the kitchen sink meanwhile, and they both toddle off downstairs. Within seconds, I hear the muted sound of their television announcing the soap opera which is the staple diet of their entertainment; no wonder she exaggerates. I’m glad they’ve gone: one has to have servants and I can’t imagine how or why next door manage without, but God, they’re a trial.

  Look at these bairns, as Harrison calls them; I mean I love them and all that, but not all day and every day, oh no. They’ll sleep early tonight, so I whisk them off without much complaint after a bit of telly, read a story to Samantha and encourage Mark to read his own. Really, Sebastian ought to do more of this even if he does double duty weekends, when they treat him like all the saints rolled into one, very, very irritating. Wish he was home sooner, just once in a while you’d think he could make the effort. Even though it’s usually easier to ignore him and the male of the species is always hankering after food while all I want is the superior interest of drink, just a large one please. I’ll stop after this. Or maybe not. Food’s an understated pastime in this household anyway, what with me never really wanting much more than a sandwich and quite disinclined to cook, and Sebastian grabbing his sustenance on the run like the wandering tribes of Egypt, quite prepared to eat the plague of locusts on toast. He might prefer another regime, but too bloody bad. Gin makes me feel stronger, occasionally very much crosser if I’m cross already, and come to think of it, has that effect now. The washing machine is rumbling in the corner, making an irritating domestic sound which makes me crosser still. And reminds me . . .

  Bugger Katherine Allendale. What does she mean, sending Jeanetta round here to romp in my son’s pyjamas? They’ve got money, haven’t they? Rather a lot in fact if that isn’t too vulgar a thing to mention. I know kids’ clothes are a terrible waste of that commodity, but she can surely find her way to any old department store; it doesn’t have to be Harrods for God’s sake. Look, I might be a somewhat distant mother, don’t believe in all this bonding stuff and letting them into bed, but at least I know when they need bloody clothes, because someone bloody tells me.

  Right: all quiet; I’ll go round and have a word with her straight away, no time like the present. Kids will be fine for a few minutes. Mark’s pyjamas, be damned, does she think we’re made of pyjamas?

  Out in the street, everything looks larger, very clear once I pick myself up from the step where I’ve tripped, always falling over these bloody steps. Whoops. So inhospitable, large and impersonal, sort of bleak, thirty-three houses in this street. Golly, thoughts do race a bit after a drink or four. I can feel them coursing round as soon as I hit the fresh air, walking up the road to their front door, hope I don’t smell.

  Golly, again. Look at those houses opposite, very shut indeed, windows like sleepy eyelids, closing all the time. We need the bloody Allendales for parties and they need Mark’s pyjamas . . . Shhhh . . . Very, very quiet indeed, rather cold, as if everything was already over until morning. White stucco houses, curtsying goodnight, gleaming rich with their own haloes, goodnight all of you, a few big trees, full of summer leaves, sheltering the white fronts or dripping sticky stuff on the cars. Everything so still you could hear the leaves drop but never a voice. Bit sobering if you see what I mean, everything so much bigger than it looks from the window. Don’t like being on ground level.

  Here we are. Our ground floor is raised, so you can’t peer in, which suits me well enough. The Allendales, slightly uphill from us, have their kitchen facing the road, just about low enough to see inside. The room glows, perhaps intended to be admired from the street, which I do, of course, both room and contents, people included. The two of them are dining at their splendid table, opposite one another: they have bowls and plates which look suspiciously like Crown Derby from here, one superb large salad bowl, and they eat with a kind of ceremony. She glows a little like the room glows, casual and rather perfect with that hair of hers like a well-controlled roan mane, hanging down her back. Eating like royalty without servants. Looks like they’re having fish: no wonder she’s slim as a reed, fish and salad, oh dear. David Allendale gets up to fetch something, glances towards the window, comes back with another lovely bowl, places a hand on her shoulder as he passes. She smiles up at him, continues eating, rather more delicate in this art than her daughter, I can tell you. How strange their children should be so disparate, the boy so sallow, like him, the girl a blonde tank, pink of skin, paler by far than her mother’s lovely colours; probably designed their children to complement each other like they do themselves. I’m sure he’s seen me, refuses to look; I know he loathes unsolicited visitors after all. Beyond them in that long, wide room, I can see the window to the garden and the annexe at the end they use as a playroom. Not a sign of a toy.

  No, since you ask me, I don’t think I shall, go in, I mean. Not in the workday suit I forgot to take off, so that they can ask me to sit on the edge of their feast and take water and wine at their altar of health, and anyway they might think I’m lonely or something silly, which of course, I am definitely not. They took so contented, him so solicitous, patting her arm and all that, everything so stylish. I can see the flowers at the window end of the table, so frightfully vivid in front of her fawn-coloured clothes, an enormous wodge of overripe sweet peas nestling in a clever little terracotta trough. I suppose he brought them home. Bet she smells fragrant, and the gin on me would be spotted a mile off. Another time, then. Did I shut the door quietly? This is a respectable street and I’ve got slippers on my feet, slippers and a suit, I ask you. Dear Katherine, would you like to come over tomorrow and transform my house, taking in my life while you’re about it? Make it perfect and me a pretty little miss like you? Sebastian would approve.

  I think, after all, I’d better go home, I’m not nearly as angry as I was.

  As Susan Pearson Thorpe shuffled back towards her own kitchen, the tableau in the kitchen of her neighbour broke abruptly, as if at the end of a play. Passing her chair, David had stroked Katherine’s long hair, sat facing her, offering more wine. No thank you, she murmured with a rueful grin; one glass is enough: you know it makes me silly.

  ‘Fine thing for husband to say to wife, darling, but you do look well.’ She smiled under his careful regard, happy in the flattery, slightly embarrassed at the formality of the words, as if he was a stranger.<
br />
  ‘Thank you, kind sir. Should I bow?’

  ‘I think old Colin Neill fancies you.’

  ‘Oh, rubbish.’ Nice to know all the same. She stored that observation for future reference. Not as a bargaining power, simply a pleasant fact to be looked at from time to time, like a child’s valuable toy, too good to use, always lovely to be admired. David kept on looking at her, so keenly she felt very slightly uncomfortable. One glass of wine went a long way: three was the sickening minimum before she lost inhibition. Cheap drunk, she told people and they laughed about it.

  ‘You’d look lovelier still with a softer haircut. Your face is so thin, the way you do it now, there’s a risk of looking severe . . .’

  ‘Oh.’ She was absurdly disappointed. He was looking at her the way he looked at things, evaluating people’s kitchens, their styles, just like he looked at this house, coolly, while she looked with a kind of passion. ‘Well I don’t want to change it.’

  ‘Of course not, if you don’t want. I was thinking of wonderful, shortish, you know curls. Lots of lovely curls.’

  She was thinking of her headband, worn home from the gym, left off when she went upstairs before the children were delivered home in a merciful state of amenable fatigue. One yellow headband another thing lost. Rather like cutlery: you started with eight and always ended with half. No one ever knew where the things went. Oh, the joy of reading that in a magazine too.

  ‘Well, I like it like this. Easy to keep.’

  ‘Lovely,’ David murmured. ‘Isn’t it nice, having a husband who notices such things?’ She beamed back at him. It was, as it happened. What had Monica said? Your back, you dress it? David wasn’t like that. Something to be proud of, even if there were times when it became, well, awkward.

  Then Jeremy’s chortled crying was transferred down to the kitchen through the little electronic device on the wall. He could easily get downstairs, Katherine thought resentfully; he’d done so before on his little nappied bottom, but he rarely had the chance since father leapt up the stairs two at a time on the merest signal of the merest whimper. Seconds after his footsteps had receded and the crackling from the intercom faded, the other one appeared. Jeanetta in all her glory, trailing after her one elongated teddy bear which Katherine recognized as having been, very lately, one of Jeremy’s favourites. Damn.