‘There, see?’ He’d gripped my wrist, and pointed delightedly at a rustling coming from the undergrowth. A neat fawn head appeared. ‘Look, a fallow deer. See its eyes? Who does that remind you of?’
Eyes like lakes had stared back – huge, limpid and frightened – but I could see what he meant.
‘I wouldn’t mind her legs,’ I’d commented as she’d startled away, leaping back into the woods on long, elegant limbs, following the call of her buck.
‘Neither would I, but a guy can’t have everything, can he?’
I’d thumped his back in mock outrage and then we’d wandered off the beaten track. Found a place to lie down in the bracken, in the middle of a thicket. We’d made love there, thrillingly, dangerously, in broad daylight where anyone could see us, and I remember, as I got up afterwards, pulling down my skirt, brushing myself free of leaves, my cheeks flushed – thinking that I’d never felt so alive. Never had so many nerve-endings been tingling at once. And there were quite a few nerve-endings tingling now, I thought, as I hastily reached for my dressing-gown and put it on. Well, I’d just had a hot bath, I reasoned, tying the cord up tight. Clearly that’s why I was feeling … you know. Flushed.
Happily the telephone cut short any further speculation on my rising temperature, and I went to the bedroom to pick it up.
‘I’ve just heard,’ said a familiar voice tinged with an unmistakable note of triumph. ‘Benji told me.’
‘Mum.’ I sat down quickly on the side of the bed. ‘What have you heard?’
‘About your supposed lover, of course. Ridiculous!’
I froze, horrified. Thought-processes whirred. ‘Oh!’ I gasped finally. ‘Oh, you mean Laurie. My boss.’
‘Of course I mean Laurie your boss. How many other supposed lovers have you got?’
‘Er, none. Naturally.’ I crossed my legs, tucking my dressing-gown around them nervously. ‘And anyway, the whole thing’s a complete nonsense, I hope Benji told you that too.’
‘Certainly he did,’ she replied warmly. ‘Although I’d have worked that one out for myself. Fancy Marcus getting in a state just because someone took you out to lunch and gave you a peck on the cheek – ridiculous. But I have to say, Henny, I saw this coming. This is what happens when girls like you go back to work. They don’t like it, these husbands. Get very jealous and imagine all sorts of high jinks. “Lunch” to them is the thin end of the wedge. Marcus probably thinks you dragged this Laurie chap back to your flat afterwards!’
I gave a hollow laugh. Licked my lips. ‘Right.’
‘I told you, Henny, they like to know where you are, and that means in the home, with the children, with the meat and two veg ready and waiting when they walk through the door at seven. You should never have taken that job, never!’
‘Mum, Marcus encouraged me to take it. It’s got nothing to do with him not wanting me to work. He’s not old-fashioned like that.’
‘Well, he’s old-fashioned enough not to like his wife mixing with attractive single men, isn’t he? Now you listen to me, young lady, we need to talk. I want to have a little chat with you about how to rectify this situation and I want to do it sooner rather than later. Time is of the essence here, believe me. I’m visiting your father this afternoon, meet me at the Nursing Home in half an hour. I’ll see you there.’
There was a decisive click on the other end as she hung up. I replaced the receiver. Great. Thanks, Benji. That was all I needed – Mum’s trenchant views on the subject at Dad’s bedside. I grimly punched out my brother’s number.
‘Oh sorry, dear heart, but she rang, you see. She’d already called the farm and been told in no uncertain terms by Marcus that you were living in London due to a fracas, so she was firmly on the case. He’s the one spilling the adultery beans, I’m afraid.’
‘What!’ I got to my feet in agitation. ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ I exploded, ‘what the hell’s he up to? No doubt it’s all round the country by now. I expect he’s sent emails to all our friends!’
‘I’m sure he hasn’t, sweets, but you can see how I had to say something to Mum. She’d tried to get you at the flat this morning and couldn’t, and by then of course Marcus had put the wind up her. She had you in a love-nest with your rampant historian, biting a pillow whilst he thrust away behind you, naked but for his spectacles, his white, academic body quivering as he paused to whip you with an ancient manuscript or quote from the Doomsday Book, or –’
‘Thank you, Benji,’ I cut in acidly. ‘I was out shopping if you must know. And anyway, Mum said she didn’t believe a word of it.’
‘Neither she did, and I’m glad you were shopping, dear heart. I thought when I tried you myself that you were ignoring the phone and lying prostrate with your head under the pillow. But no, you were up and about. Taking Uncle Benji’s advice.’
‘Yes, I …went to Kensington,’ I finished shortly. ‘And I feel much better now. Thanks.’
‘Well, it’ll soon wear off,’ he warned. ‘If you’re meeting Mum at Dad’s place as threatened, your retail-therapy glow will fade faster than a Saint Tropez tan. I should know. I went last week and I’ve only just recovered. I don’t know what they’re giving him for breakfast in there, but I’d hazard it’s got rocket fuel in it.’
‘Thanks for the warning,’ I said grimly. ‘Bit punchy, is he?’
‘Just a bit. But as happy as Larry, even if Larry is away with the fairies. But I fear for our dear old mum, Hens. She’s taking quite a battering. And she may be as tough as old boots, but even the sturdiest footwear wears out sooner or later. We must revisit this topic, my love, when you’re feeling stronger, and a mite more up to it.’
‘We will,’ I told him. ‘I’ll give it some thought, Benji, I promise.’
It was odd, I reflected as I put the phone down, how close Benji was to Mum, and how protective, considering they’d fought so much in his youth. But then again, they were very similar in many ways. Both sharp, vibrant, tricky – often funny but never boring. Whilst Dad …well, Dad had always been a soothing influence on our family. A balm. Our still small voice of calm on what were often t urbulent seas.
Not so now though, I thought, as I smoothed down the bedcover where I’d been sitting. Now he was the one creating the turbulence. The one kicking up the storm.
An hour later, having caught a bus and made my way obediently across to North London, I was pushing through the swing doors of the little Nursing Home. As I walked through the overheated reception, I had that same sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I always got when I visited Dad – only more so today, knowing I was in for a little homily from Mum.
My mother was already in the day room when I got there. She was sitting beside Dad in a circle of other inmates, all in orange leatherette armchairs, and all grouped soporifically around a television which no one appeared to be watching. It was on twenty-four hours a day as far as I could make out. Dad, dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt and blinding white trainers, was reading a magazine and steadfastly ignoring Mum as she chatted in a low voice to him. I approached the huge trainers. At home, he’d always worn grey flannels, brown brogues, and a shirt and tie – always a tie, even under a jumper – and he didn’t leave the house in winter without a felt hat which he touched to people in the street. But the nurses had said it was easier to deal with him in casual clothes, so Mum had bought them, horrified. As I leaned down to kiss Mum, I noted the magazine he was reading. Nuts. My father, who used to read the British Legion magazine, had his eyes, rapt and intent, on a scantily clad nymphet dressed in rubber and wielding a whip.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘You’re not late,’ murmured Mum.
I took the chair on the other side of Dad, where-upon my other neighbour, a snowy-haired old lady with milky blue eyes, instantly took my handbag off my lap. She opened it with interest, peering inside whilst I watched nervously. I was fairly used to this sort of behaviour. Once, in the early days of visiting Dad, I’d been stopped by a doctor in the corridor, who’d taken
me to one side and explained that Dad was improving, but must be prevailed upon to take his medication, which he didn’t always do. I’d listened intently, unaware that Dad was even on medication. It was only when the conversation took a surreal turn, and the doctor asked if I could give him a lift to the pub, that I was rescued by a nurse who explained I’d been talking to a patient.
I forced an indulgent smile at my neighbour who was going through my belongings with all the thoroughness of the Drugs Squad, and made a mental note to check its contents later.
‘How is he?’ I asked Mum over Dad’s head, then realized I was resorting to Gran’s old trick. ‘How are you?’ I asked him, leaning in to peck his cheek and catching that sweet, sickly smell I associated with him being in hospital, so different to his home smell of tweed and tobacco.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, wiping his cheek where I’d kissed him in disgust, like a child. ‘But I wish you’d tell this woman to stop bothering me. I’ve told her countless times that even if I was married to her once as she claims, I don’t want to be now. But she insists on visiting me.’
I glanced at Mum. This was a well-worn theme and as usual, she stoically ignored it. She sat implacably beside him in her best camel coat, a silk scarf tied at her neck, her legs, still good and unknotted, encased in 10-denier stockings and crossed at the ankle, her heart-shaped face beautifully made-up. Only the initiated would spot that her cheeks were slightly flushed and her eyes over-bright.
‘He doesn’t mean it,’ I muttered for form’s sake.
‘I know,’ she muttered, equally mechanically, back.
‘I do,’ he retorted loudly. Several people in the circle, all elderly and slumped in chairs, jumped perceptively at this, as if they’d been touched by a tiny electric current. They momentarily directed their opaque eyes our way, before realizing it was just Gordon again, and resumed the contemplation of their laps.
‘I do mean it. How many times do I have to tell her?’ His voice rose belligerently, and a middle-aged Indian nurse bustled over to soothe him.
‘There now, Gordon, don’t take on so.’
‘I’m going to marry Grace, aren’t I, Grace?’ he demanded of the nurse, gazing up at her like a petulant child. She chuckled.
‘Oh, Gordon, honey, it was Barbara last week. It’s me now, is it?’
‘I haven’t decided,’ he declared importantly, folding his arms across his chest. ‘But it will be one of you. It certainly won’t be her.’ He glared at Mum and I felt her shrivel. I reached across his lap to squeeze her hand.
She raised her chin. ‘Gordon, you don’t know what you’re saying.’
‘Course he doesn’t,’ soothed Grace, wiping dribble from his mouth with a hanky. ‘Now, Gordon, honey,’ she raised her voice and put her face close to his, ‘WHAT ABOUT A NICE BOWL OF SOUP? YOU DIDN’T HAVE YOUR BREAKFAST TODAY, DID YOU?’
‘What about a nice big kiss?’ demanded Dad.
‘And how about eating it at the table for once, hm?’ she went on, ignoring him. ‘Like everybody else, hm?’
A few silent souls were shuffling to a long Formica table by a hatch to obediently await supper. It was only five o’clock, but everything happened early in here. Like school.
‘No.’ Dad pursed his lips stubbornly and looked away. He never sat at the table, but they always asked.
‘All right then, I’ll get you a tray. Now sit forward while I put this cushion behind you …that’s it. It’s cream of mushroom today, you like that, don’t you?’
‘I don’t like it,’ grumbled Dad as she moved away. ‘I poured it down the lavatory last week, when she wasn’t looking. So did he,’ he pointed a finger accusingly at an old man opposite, who looked like he’d died in his chair, jaw slack, head lolling. Dad sat up excitedly.
‘Hey! Malcolm! Remember we tipped that soup down the lav last week? When Grace wasn’t looking?’
Malcolm retained his comatose state, but just as I looked away, I’d swear he winked.
‘He does, he does remember,’ chortled Dad. ‘And then we put all the plugs in the basins and turned the taps on full blast! Flooded it, didn’t we, Malc?’
Malcolm didn’t seem to remember this though, and simulated death again. But Dad was on a roll. There was some other, highly amusing jape to recount, involving sitting under tables and peeking up nurses’ skirts, and the colour rose in his cheeks as he giggled and shifted about in his seat excitedly. Eventually his giggling subsided into coughing, and then he did some faintly surprised blinking as if he couldn’t quite remember what had amused him. He picked up Nuts again and flicked through it absently, until he found his favourite scantily clad maiden. He beamed at her fondly, stroking her blonde hair with his finger, then turned wide, knowing eyes on Mum.
‘Did you know, Audrey, that there are more calories in a blow job than in a ham sandwich?’
‘Well, I know which I’d rather have,’ said Mum tartly, and rather spiritedly, I thought. She got to her feet. ‘Come on, Henny. He’s in one of his moods today. We’ll go and get a cup of coffee and leave him to simmer down.’
I walked silently with her out of the room and down the long corridor, our feet squeaking on the lino. The walls were hung with jazzy, modern prints, chosen no doubt for their bright, optimistic colours, but all the more depressing somehow, because of it. We made our way to the canteen at the other side of the building, and Mum sat at a table by the window while I got her a coffee. I glanced across at her as I collected the tray: her hands were clenched in her lap and her lips compressed as she stared out at the traffic. Composed, but broken, really. Hating it. Hating her life. Wishing her husband didn’t have senile dementia. Wishing things could go back to normal. If only he knew what he was doing to her, I thought as I came back and sat down opposite her, silently dealing out cups of coffee, little pots of milk. It would kill him.
Theirs had always been a volatile marriage, and she’d always had the upper hand, her voice shriller and louder than his, but he’d loved her, I was sure of that. And he would never have wanted to redress the balance like this.
And it didn’t matter what he threw at her, still she came, every day except Sunday, and that was only because Benji had recently put his foot down and persuaded her to have a day off, to have lunch with him and Francis. They always took her out somewhere, encouraging her to try Thai, or Japanese, which she enjoyed: the lunches were a welcome break from the barrage of constant abuse from Dad. But I knew she came here not just because she loved him, but because she felt guilty about not having him at home. She’d been able to cope with his incontinence, even his rages and his tantrums, but him not knowing who she was had been the last straw. Now that he was in here though, I knew she felt she’d failed him.
‘How are the girls, Mum?’ I asked brightly, handing her the sugar. The girls were the other three in her bridge four, all neighbours, and all well over fifty. My mother came back from far away.
‘They’re fine, my love,’ she smiled. ‘And yes, before you ask, I am still playing every Tuesday. And I’m going to tapestry on a Monday, and I’ve joined a book club on a Friday, so if you’re about to tell me I should get out more and spend less time in here – “get a life”, as Benji puts it, you’ll be pleased to hear I am.’
‘I’m sorry. We bully you, I know. It’s just …’ I struggled for the words. ‘Well, Mum, you’re still young and attractive, and Benji and I don’t think you should devote the rest of your life to Dad. You’ve given him four years now and he’s not getting any better. Worse, if anything. I just think you owe it to yourself not to make him so much the pivot of your world.’ I gazed blankly into my coffee. It was hard. So hard. And I’d put that badly.
She was quiet for a moment. ‘I know what you and Benji think, and I’m grateful, my love.’
I looked up, surprised by her gentle tone. She met my eye. ‘I am. I know what it means, particularly for you, to give me that advice.’
She meant because Dad and I were so close. She knew I wasn’t advo
cating abandoning him and making a new life for herself lightly. And I wasn’t. I loved him very much. But I also knew there was only so much a person could take.
She set down her cup carefully in its saucer. ‘I …went to the cinema the other day, actually. Haven’t been for years. It was rather a novel experience. Someone took me.’
I smiled, delighted. In point of fact I already knew because Benji had told me someone had taken her out, and I was pretty sure it was Mr Greenburg, downstairs. But I was pleased she’d told me. Howard Greenburg was an old family friend, a widower, whose wife Bertha had been Mum’s best friend and sparring partner for years. Up until Bertha’s death a couple of years ago, the two women had had coffee most mornings, competing about their children’s achievements, bickering and laughing over the Battenburg cake.
‘We saw that new Richard Curtis film. Rather amusing.’
‘Good.’ I grinned, and tried to catch her eye under her beautifully coiffed fringe. ‘Anyone I know?’
She patted her lips with a napkin. ‘Someone I’ve known for years.’ She looked directly at me. ‘And yes, someone you know, too.’ Her smile faded and her eyes drifted to the window. ‘But you know, Henny, it’s not that simple. Particularly at my age, and in my situation. It’s tricky.’
I nodded. ‘I know.’
It was. Of course it was. Dad was in here and Bertha had been her best friend. Ironically, Howard’s religion wouldn’t even register on Mum’s radar these days, too much water had gone under too many bridges for that to be an issue, but – oh, all sorts of other things would.
Mum’s eyes came back from the window. She straightened up and shifted in her seat. A regrouping gesture. Always a bad sign. Her eyes lost their wistful quality and she looked directly at me. ‘Anyway, enough about me, that’s not why we’re here. It’s you I’m worried about, Henny. What on earth’s going on? What’s all this nonsense about you and Marcus having a row and you ending up here, in London?’
‘It was a bit more than a row, Mum,’ I said nervously, squirming under her probing gaze. ‘Marcus thinks I’m a fallen woman.’
Not That Kind of Girl Page 19