Not That Kind of Girl

by Catherine Alliott

‘What neither of you are saying. That in a way it’s a blessed relief. A release from a life that was so dire. So awful. That all he did was sit in plastic chairs in geriatric Homes, that the man we knew would rather be dead than be in the places he’s been over the last few years. Would rather be dead than suffer the indignities, the bedbaths, the over-familiarity, the patronising and the institutionalizing. That the Daddy you and Henny are mourning would have taken this way out years ago. Like a shot.’

  I sat down on the other side of her, shocked. ‘But that doesn’t make it any easier surely, Mum?’

  ‘Oh, I think it does. I’ve grieved so much over the years for the Gordon I knew, the man I married, and now …I almost feel I’ve got him back again.’ She turned to me. ‘Have you seen him?’

  I stared at her, horrified. ‘No. I …’ I shrank away.

  ‘Don’t you want to?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Henny, do,’ she insisted, taking my hand. ‘Benji and I were there when he died, and we held his hands. Both of us. I’m so grateful for that.’

  I glanced up at Benji. He nodded soberly.

  ‘I’d like you to see him too,’ she urged. ‘He’s so peaceful. So calm. So like your daddy.’

  Still holding my hand she stood up, nodding at me encouragingly. I swallowed and looked appealingly at Benji. He shrugged, miserably, helplessly. At length I took a deep breath and let her lead me out of the room and down the corridor. Benji followed. Mum stopped opposite another side room, and Benji went to have a word with a nurse. She glanced at me; nodded, and came across to open the door. Benji put a hand on my arm as I was about to go in. Searched my face anxiously.

  ‘Do you want to do this, Henny?’

  I looked at Mum. I wasn’t at all sure I did, but she wanted me to, and actually, I thought as I went in, gripping Mum’s hand, she had a point. I approached slowly. A white sheet was tucked right up around Dad’s chin. I looked down at his face.

  He looked dead: that was the first thing that struck me. He didn’t look as if he was asleep, as some people say: people don’t sleep like that, so – abandoned, the flesh falling away down the side of his face; so waxy pale. But on the other hand, Mum was right. It was Daddy. My Daddy. Not the hideous caricature we’d come to know. I wanted to bend down and kiss his forehead, knew that was the sort of thing I should do, had seen grieving families do in films. But I’d never kissed his forehead before.

  After a moment, I turned and walked away. I headed out of the room and across the corridor to the window opposite; clutched the sill, taking in deep breaths. Great gulps of air filled my lungs which felt squeezed of oxygen. Benji and Mum followed.

  ‘All right?’

  I nodded quickly. ‘Yes. You were right, Mum. I’m glad I’ve seen him. That’s how I remember him. How he was before he was ill.’

  The glue that had somehow held me together in that room suddenly came unstuck, and as I cracked, tears streamed down my cheeks. Benji’s too. We clung to each other for a long time. When we parted, Mum was over by the window, staring out at the night. Mute, drawn into herself. I went to go to her, but Benji held my arm, shook his head.

  ‘She is in shock,’ he murmured. ‘She doesn’t know it, but she is. Leave her.’

  After a bit, a doctor materialized from somewhere and spoke to Benji in a low voice about administrative details, I don’t know what. When he’d gone, we stayed for a while, the three of us, huddled in that corridor. I had an awful sense that if we went, Daddy would be moved. That he’d be taken out of the hospital where he’d only just crossed the line, was only just dead, and into the world of the really dead: the land of slabs and mortuaries. I wanted to keep him here, in limbo land, for a little bit longer.

  Eventually, though, Francis appeared. I realized he’d tactfully absented himself, having delivered me to my family. He raised kind eyes at Benji.

  ‘Home?’

  Benji nodded. ‘Home.’

  I turned. ‘But where’s Mum going to –’

  ‘With us,’ he said firmly. ‘She’s staying with us. For a few nights. Henny, if you want to …’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘No, I’m going home too.’

  There didn’t seem much point in going to bed when I got back to the flat, so I turned an armchair around to face the window and sat with my feet up on the sill, my head lolling back, looking up at the moon. And then I went a long way away. I covered a lot of ground that night, a lot of miles: trawled through a good many years. At first I wished I had my photograph albums with me, but actually, I didn’t need them. I shut my eyes and all the best pictures came to me. I saw him coming into the flat on a gust of cold wind, a package in his hands, excitement in his eyes as he slipped into his study to open it in private, this precious find, a new book about the D-Day landings. I saw him after the fathers’ race at sports day, coolly accepting his prize of After Eights, my friends’ eyes popping as they clapped my bookish father who could also shift. I saw him showing me how to trace with greaseproof paper, how to make glue with flour, how to whistle through a blade of grass. I saw him running for a bus at Swiss Cottage with Benji on his shoulders, Benji shrieking with laughter as they caught it. I saw him playing French cricket with us in the communal gardens behind the flats, bat in both hands, pipe in mouth. Mostly though, I saw the wry humour and intelligence in his face; the quizzical gleam in his eye as he asked me, casually, if Custer was staging a last stand in the Finchley Road I had so much war-paint on my face.

  Eventually, a cold light crept up on the sky and the darkness shrank away. I was glad. Glad it was no longer the day my father had died.

  At a reasonable hour, I rang Marcus. He was silent on the other end. Shocked. Eventually, his voice came, slightly taut. He’d loved him too.

  ‘Henny, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I managed.

  Another silence. Then: ‘I hadn’t realized …well, the last attack he’d had was so minor, only a twinge. I hadn’t realized …’

  ‘None of us had, Marcus.’

  ‘No. Poor Gordon.’

  ‘Poor Dad.’ I put the receiver against my stomach. Squeezed my eyes tight shut. Then I wiped my face with the back of my hand.

  ‘Still there?’ he said softly, when I replaced it to my ear.

  ‘Still here.’ I took a deep breath to steady myself. Let it out shakily.

  ‘Marcus, I’m going to see the children at school today. Going to go and tell them. Then, if they want to come to the funeral, they can.’

  ‘Oh.’ He was quiet. Thoughtful. But he knew I had the upper hand. Knew that whatever I said, went. They say love changes everything: but death does, too.

  ‘And I’ll be there at the farm for them if they want to come home.’

  ‘Right.’ I could hear the cogs of his mind whirring.

  ‘Not for ever, Marcus, just for a few days. It’s just I don’t think this is quite the moment to also tell them their parents are splitting up, do you?’

  ‘No,’ he said shortly. Embarrassed, perhaps. ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Let’s let them get over this little hurdle, and then choose another exeat for your Savoy Grill surprise, agreed?’

  He caught his breath. It was said with unnecessary venom, but I couldn’t help it.

  ‘Agreed,’ he said meekly.

  Another silence hung between us.

  ‘Give them my love, Henny,’ he said eventually. ‘And to you, too. Look after yourself.’

  I nodded. Couldn’t speak, so instead put down the phone.

  After a few moments, when I’d blown my nose and made myself a cup of strong black coffee, I rang the schools and arranged to go down that afternoon. I also asked for a day off for each of the children to attend the funeral. Then I rang Laurie. I’d hoped to leave a message on his machine, but he answered in person.

  ‘Poor you,’ he murmured. ‘How awful. And it comes in waves, doesn’t it? Great, head-crushing waves. One moment you think you’re perfectly all right, and the next
, you’ve hit the deck.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, that’s it,’ I said, surprised. ‘Who …?’

  ‘My sister. Four years ago. Cancer.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  We were silent. It seemed everyone was touched. No one was immune. Everyone had their story.

  ‘Take as long as you like, Henny. Only come back when you’re ready.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The last thing I did was to send Rupert an email, telling him what had happened and why he wouldn’t find me at home. Why I was turning my mobile off for the day.

  Since I didn’t have a car in London, I borrowed Benji’s to get to the schools, picking it up in Chelsea.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ I asked as I followed him through to his kitchen to collect the keys.

  ‘In bed.’

  ‘Ah. Has she cried?’

  ‘All morning.’

  I nodded. ‘Good.’

  He walked me back to the car, gave me a hug goodbye, then stood on the pavement, watching as I drove away. He’d never reminded me of Dad, I thought, as I watched him in the rearview mirror, but actually, there was something in his stillness today. His composure. He bent his head and went back inside.

  As I cruised easily out of London and down to the country in Benji’s sleek BMW, I felt faintly soothed by its expensive purring, its classical music, its leather and chrome. It insulated me from the outside world, from the horrors of last night, and I began to feel a bit better. It came as a surprise then, when Elgar’s Nimrod came on the radio and I had to pull over to howl. I couldn’t see, I was crying so much. It was a piece that sawed through me at the best of times, but now, at the worst of times, it opened me up. How right you are, Laurie, I thought, stuffing a sodden tissue back in my bag in a layby and blinking madly. One moment you’re fine, the next, you’re on the floor. I turned the engine over again. How right you are.

  Angus’s school was my first port of call. Set in acres of rolling Northamptonshire countryside, it was looming, Gothic and grey, with plenty of arrogant turrets and sneering gargoyles set at the end of a long drive. The main body of it was grouped around a quadrangle, which was accessed through a stone archway. I parked just outside the arch and walked through, making my way to one of the more modern houses behind the ancient façade. As I passed by a ground-floor window, I spotted Angus’s house master behind his desk in his study. He instantly got to his feet as he saw me and I realized he’d been waiting. I couldn’t help smiling. He was a tiny man, terribly formal and correct, and as he came to the front door to greet me, his Brylcreemed head was bowed low. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d been sporting a black armband. He took my hand in both of his, like a vicar, and gazed respectfully at my shoes.

  ‘My sincere condolences, Mrs Levin,’ he murmured.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It must have been a terrible shock.’

  ‘Yes. It was rather sudden. Does Angus …?’

  He raised his head a fraction. ‘I’m afraid I took the liberty of telling him, because once he knew you were coming, he imagined the worst. His father, perhaps, or his sister. Divorce on the cards, maybe …you know how an adolescent mind works.’

  ‘Er, yes.’ So divorce was worse. Heavens. I swallowed and followed him inside to his study.

  ‘But I have to warn you, Mrs Levin,’ he shut the study door behind us and laid a sombre hand on my arm, ‘he has yet to emote.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I tried not to smile. The idea of Angus ‘emoting’ in front of this stiff little man was unimaginable.

  ‘Perhaps he has in private,’ I suggested. ‘You know, in his room. And the thing is, Mr Cartwright, for the last six years my father was an invalid. He was in a Home. He had senile dementia, and didn’t recognize his grandchildren. We stopped taking them to see him when it became upsetting.’

  This much was true, although on one occasion recently, Angus had come with me. I’d been getting ready to go to London to see Dad, and had been surprised when Angus had said he’d like to come. He’d played whist in the day room with him and Dad kept glaring at him and asking him who the devil he was. When Angus won the game, he called him a flaming cheat. I smiled, remembering Angus calmly dealing the cards out again and letting him win the next game. Dad eyed him suspiciously. ‘Flaming yobbo.’

  ‘Ah! The lad himself.’

  Angus, looking awkward, was ushered into the room. His hair needed washing and his shirt was hanging out.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Hi, darling.’ I pecked his cheek quickly.

  ‘Now. I’ll leave you.’ Mr Cartwright bowed again, almost in half this time, and seemed to shuffle out backwards, wringing his hands like Uriah Heep.

  I gave Angus a proper hug and we sank down on the sofa, relieved to be alone.

  ‘He wants me to burst into tears, Mum, and I can’t,’ Angus said despairingly.

  I smiled. ‘I know.’ I patted his hand.

  ‘I mean, the thing is,’ he struggled to explain. ‘It’s awful for you and everything, and I’m really sad for you, Mum,’ I squeezed his hand, grateful, ‘but to be honest, I didn’t really know Grandpa. Except when he was normal, when he was younger, and that was ages ago. And I can’t help thinking …well, I know it’s an awful thing to say ’cos he’s your dad …’

  ‘No, say it, Angus.’

  ‘Well, wouldn’t he rather it was this way?’ He twisted to look at me; honest, fifteen-year-old eyes. ‘Rather than going on like that in that awful Home? I know I would,’ he said with feeling.

  I thought of Mum’s similar sentiments. ‘If you mean, would the man I knew six years ago …’

  ‘The real Grandpa,’ he put in.

  ‘Would he have wanted to die? Then yes.’

  Yes. I could just hear him. Could just see him too, in the flat in the Finchley Road, glancing up from the Independent at breakfast, over his glasses – ‘What? Go ga-ga? In some nuthouse? Jesus, shoot me, would you?’ Leaning back in his chair to call around the kitchen door, ‘Audrey, slip me a cyanide sandwich if it ever comes to that, all right?’

  ‘But the thing is, Angus,’ I struggled on, ‘as the man he’d become …well, he was very happy. Content.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Angus said angrily, getting up and going to the window. He thrust his hands in his pockets and stared out. ‘He’d have been horrified if he could have seen himself.

  Seen what he’d become.’ He glared defiantly at the cricket pitch, the autumn leaves billowing across it from the oaks overhanging the boundary.

  I smiled down at my hands. The arrogance of youth. There was only one way to be, and that was strong, vital, fit and most definitely compos mentis. No half-measures. Anything else, any compromise, was a waste of time.

  ‘Well, whatever,’ I said softly. ‘You may be right, darling.’ I eyed his straight back as he stayed at the window, watching the groundsman rake the leaves away from the wicket.

  ‘I’d like to come to the funeral, though,’ he said, turning. ‘Like to say goodbye properly.’

  I nodded. ‘Good. I’d like you to come.’ Hadn’t wanted to force it, though.

  ‘Anyway,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘I’ve never been to a funeral before.’

  I smiled. It was said rather as if he’d never been to an ice-hockey match. Or a bar mitzvah. A life experience to be ticked.

  We chatted some more, and then we went for a wander outside. Angus took me down to the lower playing-fields and we watched a bit of a football match that he would have been in if I hadn’t been coming. When the games master came across and asked if he wanted to go on for the second half, Angus looked momentarily delighted, then glanced nervously at me.

  ‘Of course, darling.’ I hugged him. ‘I’d much rather you were scoring goals. Go on, go and get changed. I’ve got to go and see Lily, anyway.’

  ‘OK. Give her my love, by the way.’

  ‘I will.’

  Now that was a first.

  He shot off to get changed and I folded my arms agains
t the wind and headed slowly back to the car. As I walked up the gravel path, Mr Cartwright emerged from his house to say goodbye.

  ‘And rest assured, Mrs Levin,’ he purred, bustling me to the car, ‘Angus is in good hands. As you know, we pride ourselves on our pastoral care here at Shelbourne. We’ll give him all the counselling he requires.’

  ‘Er …right. Thank you.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Angus, already changed into his strip, racing down the lower lawn to unceremoniously hoof the reserve off and take up his rightful position at left back. ‘Although I’m not entirely convinced that counselling will be necessary …’

  Lily’s school was a different story. When I arrived at the rambling Victorian pile in Berkshire with its pointy red-tiled roofs and crumbling green paintwork, the front door appeared to be locked. No one came when I rang the bell, so I went round the back, pushed through a side door and wandered up and down some empty corridors until I found a pretty sixth-former with long soft hair and beautiful manners, painting her nails in a science lab.

  ‘Oh, they’re all in prep,’ she assured me, slipping off the desk. She showed me into the Headmistress’s study, which was also empty, then disappeared, promising to find her for me.

  I sat down facing the leather-topped desk, and after a while, the door flew open and in bustled Miss Whitehorn, the Deputy Head.

  ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ she gasped. A newly appointed member of staff, she was very large and very breathless. On our first meeting with her last term, Marcus had whispered confidently in my ear, ‘Lesbian.’ Her spectacular bust was heaving now and her gown flapping as she flew to greet me, wreathed in smiles as I got up.

  ‘Mrs Levin.’ She shook my hand warmly, and rather painfully, actually, her rings were so numerous. ‘What a lovely surprise.’

  ‘Er, well. Not too much of a surprise, surely? Only I did telephone …’

  ‘Oh yes, yes, I believe we did get the message, but still, lovely of you to come in person. Sit! Sit!’

  She waved a commanding, chubby hand and bustled around to the other side of the desk to take up Mrs Hargreave’s rightful position. She lowered her enormous bottom carefully as if anticipating a creak, then safely installed, beamed widely.