The Playroom

by Frances Fyfield

  One worry led to another. ‘Ooh, should we go and look if Jemmy’s all right?’ Jeanetta’s anxious tones. ‘We might have woke him.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Granny. ‘Mummy put him to bed, didn’t she?’ Jeanetta shook her head. ‘No Daddy does. Mummy not allowed to touch him, nor me,’ she said. ‘Only Daddy.’ ‘Well really, I must say, honestly,’ said Sophie. ‘Well, I can’t go back up all those stairs, you go. You’re nearly five after all. Go on, I’ll wait at the bottom.’ Jeanetta, taking the directive as a dare and a rare chance to touch the adored Jeremy, scrabbled upstairs, still in the lurex shawl but without shoes, disappeared for a matter of three minutes while Sophie waited impatiently. ‘’S OK,’ she announced on her breathless return. ‘Alive?’ Sophie asked caustically. ‘Sleeping,’ said Jeanetta. ‘I’se put back on his cover and give him Teddy.’ Upstairs, Jeremy slumbered with the coverlet over his ears, a teddy bear thrust against his nose, making breathing perfectly possible, but ster-torously noisy. Granny and granddaughter returned to the kitchen. One of them was in the act of shredding rose petals, for pot-pourri, Granny explained, the other crayoning a copy on to the table surface, when David, soft footed and too quiet with the insertion of his key in the oiled lock of the front door, returned to find them.

  He took one look at the faces turned towards his in benign surprise, transformed to welcome, quickly in the case of Sophie, slowly for Jeanetta, who suddenly saw the tableau of their presence with some dim understanding of the way he might see the same, scuttled beneath the table. David turned from the kitchen and ran upstairs, found Jeremy breathing like a pug-dog, half smothered in blanket, his breath a harmless rasp and his body over-warm. At the door of the room were a couple of rose petals, and part of the detached fringe of the shawl Jeanetta had been wearing. David threw Teddy out of the cot, pulled back the duvet and added to the boy’s unconscious comfort, trembling with rage. Descending to the kitchen, he was still speechless as Jeanetta’s head poked above the table. He pointed at her as if he could not bear to have touched, then stabbed his finger in the direction of the stairs.

  ‘I’m not telling you twice, you little bastard. Go to bed.’

  ‘Lost my ’jamas . . .’

  ‘Go to bed.’ His hand was raised. She slid away under his arm, ducking as she went, and traversed the stairs on her hands and knees at a fast crawl without any attempt to say goodnight. Granny looked once in her direction, then, as soon as the child was out of sight, forgot her; fixed on her only son one radiant glance of adoration.

  ‘David, darling, we’ve had such fun . . .’

  ‘So I see.’

  There were three dismembered coat-hangers on the floor against the open cupboard. Biscuits for cheese, chocolate versions, wrappers of cellophane and a few tins of something lay in a heap. The floor was otherwise littered with taffeta cloth, shoes, toys, crayons and two bread rolls trodden into crumbs. Mrs Allendale was wearing a tiara and the music still played.

  ‘And where’s Katherine, dear? Did you have a nice time? Tell me do, was there real dancing?’

  ‘Katherine stayed at the party. She must have known what she’d find here. I’ll get you a cab, Mother.’

  Sophie’s face fell. ‘But I thought I was staying the night.’ Her smile lit on the carnage which was once the kitchen, noting for the first time, but shrugging away. His speech was low and clipped as he dialled from a phone on the wall. ‘This was your last chance, Mother. Katherine anticipated something of the kind. I’m sorry if I seem so fussy, but I must do as she asks. This mess will kill her. Hallo? Yes, please, yes, Hampstead village, on my account. As soon as possible, thank you.’ Such mild politeness, betrayed only to himself by shaking fingers. He gave his name and address, replaced the receiver and turned to her.

  ‘You’ve had it, Ma. And you mustn’t ever come here again unless Katherine asks you. Which may not be for some time, if ever at all.’

  Sophie got the message in a sharp way, taking the meaning without understanding, wailing, ‘Why, darling, why? What did I do so wrong? Only playing, me and your daughter, playing, that kind of thing, what’s wrong?’

  ‘You’re a bloody conspiracy,’ he said calmly. ‘All of you. You can never do as you’re damn well told. You shouldn’t disobey me. I gave you strict instructions. Anyway, the last thing you should do is give that child food.’ The doorbell rang: he collected Granny’s handbag, all her small luggage of nightie and toothbrush inside. ‘Here’s your cab. Get out. Don’t forget to tell him where you live.’

  She looked at him, her eyes blank with hurt. ‘Just like Daddy,’ she said in a whisper. He spun round to face her, shouting, ‘Get out.’

  Get out, get out, get out. He calmed himself by repeating the words like a litany chanted over his own rage until he was under control, no longer at risk from his own violence when the engine of Sophie’s cab echoed away down the street. Then he began to tidy the room, re-establishing order in the dry-food store, folding the evening clothes, wiping the table, loading the dishwasher, rearranging furniture with swift, two-handed efficiency until he had got the whole thing straight enough to be recognizable as the kitchen he had made. He polished the table until the mahogany shone, stroked it sensuously with the back of his hand; stood back and admired his room. He did a survey of the rest of his house, switching on lights, checking and smiling as if the possessions might respond. Mine, all mine: all things in their places, beautiful and ordered. Then he went out into the garden, examined the blooms, tutting over three rose stems where the branches had been cruelly broken, smoothed out the soil where Jeanetta’s footsteps were prevalent, picking up the dead leaves scattered by his mother’s progress, seeing only Jeanetta’s progress. Then he adopted the nightly ritual, put down the pellets against the cats she encouraged into the garden, supplied by the pet-hating chemist who promised them as lethal to cat life, benign to vegetation. Garden tidied, kitchen restored to final discipline with the floor shining again, he began to feel calm, his passions sated for a moment. They would all learn: some were slower than others was all.

  David consulted his watch. She should be home soon, any time now. The anger was ice cold. He supposed he had better wait for her. As an afterthought he checked Jeremy again, found his breathing quieter. After that, he slid the bolt in the front door. Let her knock. Unnecessary act even as he thought of it. He was the only one with a key.

  Get out, get out, get out. She had loved the sensation of being driven home in the car, a feeling, aided by alcohol, of hiding away. Their car, David’s car, seemed huge; she never remembered the type, but an all-singing all-dancing car with electric windows, automatic locks and gears, an engine of smooth-sounding power. Progress through the dark streets, the odd, erratic illumination casting shadows over her face, was making her feel part of a capsule travelling through time, watertight, airtight, permanently warm. Despite the heat of the night and a feeling of safety, Katherine had been loath to open a window, disliking the feeling of a draught of fresher air to disturb this hermetically sealed safety. She was not unduly worried by the silence of his driving, felt she had been rather clever, not worried by anything, floating without alarm since David seemed to have enjoyed his evening and anything she had failed to do had not been registered by any single word or gesture of his since she had returned to the light of the party, combed, restored to good grooming under Colin’s direction. Well somebody liked her, nobody cared what she did and flirting was all right. A short sojourn it had been, very short indeed, with nothing happening, and all of it already fading into memory apart from the lingering and treacherous smell of her cigarette smoke which she was too drunk to conceal. Drunk and defensive and smiling into the darkness, listening to the radio, tra, la, la. Soon they would be home and she could take off this hideous dress.

  In Kilburn the darkness was more sinister and more interesting, the light more irregular. The desertion of the pavements was intermittent, groups stood in conversation, debating which of many moves underground for entertainment, eve
rything spoiling for trouble. Multicoloured youth lurked on each corner, waiting for Saturday night to start on Sunday. Pretty view from the window of the car. Pretty woman, soon home, regarding them like exhibits in a gallery, some sub-species forming part of the view while they waited for the dealer, watched by a wife in a big car who shuddered a little at the dim spectacle of all those other lives.

  That was where he stopped the vehicle to one side of the road opposite a small group drunk with argument or quarrelling drunk, same difference. He had walked round to her side of the car, opened the door and pulled her by the arm. ‘Get out,’ he said, ‘get out, get out – you walk from here.’ They watched her, the youths, Hey man, get that, celebrating the fall of midnight. ‘Get out,’ he said again.

  David heated skimmed milk in the kitchen, laid the table for breakfast. Three places, father, mother, son. While Katherine was running, a stumbling flight somewhere near the Edgware Road, sense of direction half functioning, clutching her bare arms, sweating, but chilled with cold. She had walked slowly from the car, watching ahead, but the first of the youths had stopped her after a hundred yards. ‘’Scuse me, you got the time, lady?’ Looking up to see him, black and glistening, his face hanging back. Automatically, she extended her wrist to look at the gold dial, saw another face move in behind the first. She pushed past both and began to walk faster, conscious of the third man in pursuit, unprepared for the shove which sent her sprawling to the ground. Instinct made her roll on to her stomach, clutching her handbag to her chest: there was a searing pain in the wrist which had broken her fall. She felt a blow to her head, punch or kick she could not tell, a wrenching of her back to force her to turn. She was pulled over, legs spreadeagled, hands clawing at her chest to free the bounty while she twisted her head from side to side, the scream in her throat prevented by an arm across her neck: panting in the darkness, her watch torn away from a clenched hand. The pressure eased: her opening eyes could see nothing but blackness and for a moment she thought she was blind, but within a second she could identify a muscular body tensed over her own, smell the stench of dirt and excitement. ‘Run, man, run . . .’ an urgent voice, one set of feet pattering away, but another breathing deep, waiting. Above her head there appeared an orb of black features, pink eyes like a ferret holding her own, but vacant while the crouched man patted her supine body, frisking but pausing. A small, impersonal grin appeared at the edges of his full mouth, revealing yellow bared teeth as one hand thrust down the dress squeezed the nipple beneath with such ferocity she cried out in pain. ‘Leave her, man,’ words almost shouted, ‘. . . For fuck’s sake leave . . .’

  But he wrenched her to her feet from behind; with one arm locked round her throat, the other pinning her waist against the ominous bulge of his groin, half dragged, half pulled her back from the central pavement, her feet scrabbling for purchase, one shoe lost, feeling the sweat on his skin. ‘Leave her man, leave,’ the voice becoming a hiss of urgent command, the shuffling, cursing continuing many more steps until they ceased. Her half-open eyes registered boxes, dustbins, bottles around their feet, something like the enclave of a pub’s back yard, full of the odour of rubbish and stale beer. Then a sudden silence apart from thunderous breathing, lights visible at the end of the alleyway to the street. In the near distance, there was an insistent rhythm of music, while nearer at hand a long low whistle.

  ‘See what you mean, man,’ another face swimming into focus. ‘Oh yeah, pretty lady.’ One hand mounting her thigh, digging into her crotch with fingers of steel, vicious, bruising jabs, the dress tearing, screams suffocated by the arm across her throat. ‘Oh yeah, man, put her down, put her down on the floor . . .’ A scrabbling at her pants, fingers yanking the dress down to reveal the small bosom. She gouged her fingernails into the forearm as it relaxed, felt the nails penetrate flesh, a temporary release. She sprang up, one athletic movement learned in the gym, pulled off the remaining shoe and ran for the light of the street, one of them reaching for her hair, pulling her back. She swung wildly with the stiletto end of the shoe, blind and repeated striking, felt connection with the bone of forehead, a short scream following, stopped suddenly, the sound of a siren wailing closer and closer with shrill urgency. Then she was lying still, kicked in passing, one arm imprinted with the mark of a trampling shoe in their haste to move, footsteps padding away into the dark, back down the alley away from the bins into the distance. The engine carrying the siren flew swiftly on, following the call to another destination, screaming past her in a blur of blue light as she reached the pavement and beckoned vainly towards it.

  She began to stumble down the road in the same direction, one breast bouncing free from the red dress. Katherine was familiar with running away, but the childish running had been a game, played in the confidence of someone finding her; not like this.

  The doorstep was icy cold. The knocking on the door and leaning against the bell had continued for what felt a longer eternity than all the time she had walked, pausing to hide in doorways, shoulders wrapped in a piece of filthy polythene which had drifted against her legs and made her scream. Utterly exposed, harlot, tart, alone again, gasping, oh please, please, anyone, please . . . When he finally opened the door, the heat from within hit her like a blast from an oven.

  ‘Good of you to call,’ said David. ‘I suppose you think you’re going to come in.’

  She nodded dumbly.

  ‘Well I don’t know about that, darling. Did you have fun?’

  Katherine looked up, searching for his face. The light behind reduced his features to one enormous silhouette. She willed herself not to cry, thinking quite out of sequence how there had been neither money nor keys in the bag she had lost.

  ‘Found a couple of fans out there, did we, sweetheart? I can see you did. No one else’s business of course, but what a surprise. No one in their right mind would want a fat little tramp like you. No one short of a faggot like Colin Neill. Was he gentle, darling, was he? Better than the others? Sweet and kind and flattering, come on, you can tell me.’

  She raised her face, waiting for the slap of his palm to ring against her temple, felt her head jerk sideways. Then she began to cry, crouched at his feet on the front steps, pressing her hands against her ears. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please, don’t send me away . . .’

  ‘Hush, darling, hush . . . Darling Katherine, good girl, oh don’t cry, hush now . . . my lovely.’ He drew her up into his arms, her face sobbing against his chest, and carried her gently inside. ‘Hush, darling: I’m sorry too; you’re home now. Here, here, carefully, come on now . . .’

  His face in the hall mirror smiled, although his eyes, like hers, shone with tears. Katherine felt the tears she did not see. Order was established.

  CHAPTER 10

  As a little girl, I said, ‘I want’, rather often; and somewhere down the line, more usually sooner rather than later, I got. You become cunning about these things as a child, I seem to remember, particularly in my case because one’s will had to be translated to so many people, all of whom required a different approach. No good tackling Nanny in the same way you would seduce Mama, and most of them drove a hard bargain anyway. You can have a bicycle if . . . You can go to that school if . . . Posing in the wake of their promises the kind of obligations which make the labours of Hercules seem like ten cents. Where grown-ups were being outstandingly dense, complex manoeuvres were required, such as being quiet and ostentatiously good, or making them think it was their idea in the first place and applying their own logic, e.g., this will be cheaper in the end. Either way, one usually won, so much so I simply can’t remember the failures. I acquired the animals, the clothes, the school, the career and finally the chap I wanted at the time. What I don’t understand is when the process ceased to be successful.

  Because it damn well isn’t at the moment, at least not in any way which is helpful. I’ve taken to looking in the mirror and quite clearly something is out of control. There’s nothing wrong of course: everything’s w
onderful really, but I don’t like myself as much any more; the flesh swells while the mind of me stinks. All this self-torture began after I’d seen the Sebastian look-alike on the park bench haunted by the ghost of Katherine Allendale, but don’t think it has anything to do with him, because it doesn’t. Sebastian wouldn’t stray in a month of Sundays and I wouldn’t give a monkey’s if he bloody well did, but he really isn’t like that honestly. I just need to tidy up the litter in my life, get everything straight, including the person. Then everything will be absolutely fine.

  So there it was, staring me in the boxer-like face with the pink eyes and the throbbing head several days hence. The naked and knackered truth behind a revolutionary resolution, Susan Pearson Thorpe about to embark on a course of self-improvement, a complete physical overhaul of skin, clothes and hair. (Reminds me of a joke about an old lady going streaking. Did you see that, one old man asked another; what was she wearing? Don’t know, said the other, but whatever it was it needed ironing. I used to find that one funny. Ha ha.)

  Which is how I got to the subject of willpower. I imagined the emergence of butterfly from chrysalis was simply a matter of applying will, but you’ve got to be joking; the whole thing is unbelievably complicated. Having seen Katherine Allendale fold herself into the car wearing a red dress which must have been poured on her, I was inspired while wondering how ever she had the time to do all the preparation, which is actually quite numbingly, ballbreakingly, hideously boring. Nothing daunted, I started on the black hole of Calcutta otherwise known as the wardrobe, full of garments of similar dark colours complete with the wear, tear and fungus of rather too many seasons. I never thought clothes mattered, but I suspect they do. I beat a few of the shoes into submission, but my feet appear to have grown. There was little for it but to slop the whole lot back into the black hole and make for the shops. I meant business, you see: shops, no booze and a regime of exercise at Katherine Allendale’s club. In deep secret, on a clandestine day off work, of course. Christ Almighty.