by Jemma Forte
‘Good idea lovey,’ she agrees, just a little too enthusiastically for my liking.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When I reappear downstairs it’s an awkward scene that greets me. Mum’s trying to act as if Ray isn’t even there, and like everything is perfectly normal by putting on a display of loud talking about nothing in particular, which she accompanies with lots of irritating, false laughter. Meanwhile, Martin’s bristling with humiliation and unease, which somehow makes Mum’s efforts all the more strained. It’s obvious Martin’s dying to be on his own with Mum so he can confront her about her lies. However, with Ray still there, he has to make do with diverting all his energy towards the barbecue, which Mum’s already referring to as ‘Barry the barbecue’. And of course, amidst all this tension and strangeness is Andy, who must have the hide of a bloody rhino.
I watch him trying to ingratiate himself with whoever’s listening – so that’s no one – by telling stories about what the two of us got up to in Thailand, which is tiresome and strangely inappropriate given how fragile we’re all feeling.
The only person who seems totally unselfconscious is Ray who’s still sitting on the same garden chair I left him on, obviously determined to stay until there’s some sort of conclusion.
‘All right?’ he calls over, having spotted me lurking by the patio doors.
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘So, now it’s all out in the open, we don’t have to tiptoe around any more. All right? Your mum might not like it, and that’s her business, but from now on I don’t want you worrying or having to make up excuses to see me,’ he says, and not just for my benefit.
I nod. ‘OK.’
‘But anyway, seeing as you seem all right, I’ll make tracks now. Let you lot get on with having your barbecue,’ he says wryly, making a point of looking up at the clouds, which are looking ominously rainy. Then he pulls his jacket tighter round him before looking across at Martin and pulling a face. I look away because I want to giggle and don’t think it would go down well if anyone saw me doing so.
Ray gets up, comes over and touches me on the elbow. ‘I’m sorry that my coming back has caused so much upset by the way.’
I shrug and shake my head dismissively. ‘Don’t be silly, it’s fine. Well, you know, not fine, but just one of those things.’
‘So anyway, what are you up to tomorrow? Or are you hanging out with lover-boy?’ he says, jerking his head in Andy’s direction, who looks delighted by this reference to himself and rewards me with a creepy wink.
I turn my back to him and give Ray a dirty look, fully aware that he’s taking the piss. It must be obvious to him what a disaster that whole issue is.
‘I mean, I’m sure you’ll want to spend a bit of time together discussing grilling techniques,’ he adds in a sly whisper.
‘I’m working tomorrow actually,’ I reply, narrowing my eyes, while my brow knits into a warning frown.
‘Oh, by the way Marianne, speaking of work,’ interrupts Mum, who’s been busying herself round the barbecue, in a blatant attempt to suck up to Martin and get back in his good books. She looks thankful for a reason to stop. She’s being so cloying she’s probably making herself feel sick. ‘You got a call earlier. Someone needs you to do a party on Sunday, if you’re free. Their fairy’s ill, or something like that. Someone recommended you.’
‘Oh,’ I say, head swirling. Once again it’s incredibly inconvenient that Andy’s here because actually doing a party on Sunday would be great. I don’t have any more party bookings for a few weeks, so could do with the money. Apart from anything else I want to pay for some violin lessons. My teacher’s back from her holidays soon and I’m desperate for a session.
‘Um, well it kind of depends on Andy,’ I say loudly, hoping he’ll get the hint. He too is busy fiddling with the new barbecue, filling it with charcoal.
‘Fine by me, sweets. You just carry on,’ he says, grinning at me drippily, and I notice he’s managed to get ketchup down his front already from his ‘pre-dinner’ burger.
‘OK,’ I reply, relieved but also wondering what on earth he’s going to do with himself during all the time I won’t be here. If only he’d get the hint.
‘Let’s speak soon then,’ says Ray. ‘Although, I’d love to see you in your clown costume on Sunday. Sounds bleedin’ hilarious.’
‘Feel free,’ I say, suddenly wondering hopefully whether the sight of me dressed in my clown clothes might put Andy off. If so I’d happily put them on now. I’d happily do a number of things that ordinarily I’d shy away from. Stick my hand in the toaster, eat a jar of peanut butter on a hot day with nothing to drink, pierce my labia, share a sleeping bag with a scorpion. You get the picture.
Ray and I say goodbye and as soon as he’s left, Mum and Martin disappear into the house to ‘discuss’ a few things, leaving Andy and I alone for the first time since he arrived at the house. He comes over to where I’m slumped despondently in a chair and pulls up a lounger.
‘It’s so good to see you baby,’ he says lovingly.
‘It’s … really nice to see you too,’ I say, though I’m distracted by the sound of Martin’s raised voice floating through the window. It isn’t a sound you hear often.
‘So good to see you,’ he repeats somewhat unnecessarily.
‘Yeah …’ I agree faintly. ‘Bit weird somehow, you know, not being on a beach in the sun, and you being here for the first time my mum and dad have seen each other in years and when my sister’s lost her baby but … great … though I’m a bit worried about what you’re going to do now you’re here. You see I’ve got to go to work tomorrow and it looks like I’ll have to work on Sunday now too and …’
‘Don’t worry,’ he says, reaching over to stroke my face, which makes me want to heave. I feel like such a bitch but I can’t help it.
‘You just do what you have to do and don’t worry about me. I’ll go into town tomorrow and see some sights probably. You can just point me in the direction of the station and I’ll be fine.’
‘OK,’ I say, grateful at least for how capable and independent he is.
‘Besides, Martin has already said he’s around tomorrow and that he might take some days off work so that he can take me to the driving range and to somewhere called Homebase I think it was, which would be awesome.’
‘Right,’ I say faintly.
Six days later and I’m wriggling into my Custard the Clown outfit. I’m a bit late because I got distracted listening to Bach’s concerto for two violins and lost track of the time. It’s hard to describe what happens to me when I listen to the classical music I love, but it’s a form of escape for sure. It relaxes me and has the ability to transform my outlook, my energy and mindset. It’s the equivalent to taking my brain out and running it under a cold tap. For some people exercise achieves the same thing, for others reading or other types of music. For me it’s the synchronicity of an orchestra, the way the instruments weave together and the haunting sound of my favourite instrument taking centre stage.
Anyway, it’s worked its magic this morning and I feel ready for the day ahead.
Just then my phone goes. It’s Ray.
‘You still “clowning around” this morning?’
‘Yep.’
‘Lover-boy going with you?’
‘No, he’s out with Martin, and please don’t call him that.’
‘Out with Martin, eh? Blimey, think of the fun those two musketeers must be having.’
I suppress a grin, refusing to give Dad the satisfaction of knowing he’s making me laugh. Truthfully, I’m so relieved I’m able to offload Andy on to Martin and have been doing so all week. He’s been trying to persuade me to sneak into his room at night, but I’ve also been telling him I’ve got headaches and that I need to sleep alone until they’re better. Last night however, he ended up trying to sneak into my room and indeed bed, three times in total. In the end, out of desperation, I told him I was on my period, which did the trick. However, my avoidance of a
ll physical contact seems to be increasing his ardour, so sooner or later I’m going to have to sit him down and have the inevitable ‘we need to talk’ talk.
‘I’m in your neck of the woods as it goes.’
‘Are you?’ I say, heaving up my braces, while balancing the phone between my ear and my shoulder. Damn, now there’s pan-stick make-up all over my phone.
‘Yeah, so feel free to say no but I was serious about wanting to come with you today, and not just to take the piss. If you’re up for it I could be with you in ten. I’d really like to see you in action.’
I shrug, before adjusting my wig in the mirror. ‘Come then, though they might think it’s a bit weird that I’ve bought you along,’ I add, secretly worrying that Ray will stick out like a sore thumb at a kid’s party.
‘I’ll keep out the way I promise, and if they ask, I’ll say I’m your glamorous assistant.’
‘Fine,’ I say, loathe to refuse a request to spend time together. Besides, things I ordinarily would fret about, no longer seem worth the effort.
When Dad turns up and I answer the door, his reaction to my costume is the usual – surprise followed by deep amusement.
I wouldn’t really mind – seeing him laugh is actually very gratifying – only he’s not alone. Standing next to him on the front step is Matthew. At least I assume it’s Matthew, only because I’ve heard a fair bit about my dad’s nurse and this person is wearing a white male nurse’s uniform. He’s quite tall, probably in his early thirties, has a slim build and light brown, curly hair – not curly as in my clown wig curly, curly in a good way – wavy and a bit unkempt. He has a really pleasant, open face. Very friendly, with brown eyes that crinkle up at the sides as he smiles. His congenial appearance is offset though, in a ruggedly masculine way, by what’s probably about a three-day growth. Basically, he’s what my mum would call ‘a right Bobby Dazzler’, or to put it a less cruise-ship way, he’s fit. Gorgeous in fact.
So it’s obviously completely fantastic that I’m dressed as a clown.
‘Matthew, meet Marianne. My youngest daughter.’
‘Ah right, very pleased to meet you, Marianne,’ he says, extending a hand and smiling at me.
‘Hi,’ I say, desperately trying to sort out my wonky wig with one hand while shaking his with the other.
‘I’m your father’s support nurse.’
‘Oh, of course,’ I reply. ‘Great to meet you. Just to say I don’t usually dress like this.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Matthew smiles warmly. ‘It suits you!’
I laugh weakly and then the three of us stand there in awkward silence until Dad finally pipes up, ‘Right, well thanks for the lift Matt, and for everything else as usual. I’ll see you soon and perhaps you two will meet again under slightly more normal circumstances another time?’
‘That would be great,’ says Matthew politely, while I quietly die inside.
Once Matthew has finally headed off, no doubt laughing to himself about what an utter freak I am, Dad and I squash into Tina and sit in companiable silence, which is only interrupted sporadically by him spluttering as a new wave of laughter at my outfit overtakes him. His laugh is a deep, throaty, belly laugh; an unfamiliar sound and therefore another reminder of our estrangement over the years.
‘You’re out of order,’ I say eventually. ‘That was so embarrassing. He must think I’m a right freak.’
‘I had no idea you’d already be suited and booted. But don’t worry about it, Matt’s a good boy. He’ll think you’re brilliant.
I give him a look that says that I very much doubt that.
‘So, when’s your next music lesson?’ he manages to say eventually with a straight face, finally aware that if he carries on laughing I’m going to start getting properly annoyed.
I glance across. ‘Why all this interest in my days and how I fill them?’
He stares fixedly out of the window. ‘Got to pack it all in, ain’t I?’
‘Oh,’ I say, regretting what was a pretty stupid question in retrospect. I gulp. ‘Well, Mrs Demetrius has been on holiday, but she gets back next week so I’ll probably have a lesson next Thursday evening. That’s when I usually go.’
‘Can I come?’
‘Course, yeah,’ I reply, scanning the house numbers as we drive by. ‘If you want to.’
‘We here then?’ asks Dad, as we pull up to a semi-detached, well cared for house that has balloons tied to the gate.
We look a right pair as I struggle up the path in my clown shoes. As I ring the bell I hear a squeal from the other side of the door. I turn and signal to Dad to join me, thankful that due to the spring-like nature of the day at least he isn’t wearing his leather coat.
An attractive blonde mum answers the door. ‘Hiya, thanks so much for coming at such short notice. Look at you, you look brilliant! I’m Julie by the way.’
‘Nice to meet you, and glad I could help.’
‘I was totally desperate. I think I explained to your mum I had a fairy booked but she phoned to say she was going on a hen weekend instead.’
‘Oh, well that’s charming,’ I say.
‘I know, I wasn’t particularly impressed I can tell you,’ says Julie, rolling her eyes. ‘Still, come in and I’ll get my daughter to come and say hi. I think she’s pretending to be shy right now. Lexie the clown’s here,’ she calls.
Small feet appear at the top of the stairs.
‘Come on,’ encourages her mother. ‘Come down and say hello to Custard and … sorry, are you together?’ she asks, finally registering Dad who’s standing behind me.
‘Yes, sorry,’ I say. ‘This is Ray, my … assistant for the day.’
She doesn’t look terribly sure about this and I can see her wondering what to say. Ray flashes her his most ingratiating smile though, and eventually I think she realises that we’ve come as a package and that therefore she doesn’t have much choice other than to be cool with it while crossing her fingers we aren’t about to raid her house.
‘OK, well come on in, ah Lexie, there you are.’
‘Hi Lexie,’ I say enthusiastically. I can instantly tell she’s the shy type and that she’ll be difficult to get much out of.
‘All right Lexie,’ says Dad, in his rasping voice. I was amazed when I found out he hasn’t smoked for years. Sometimes it sounds like he’s on thirty a day.
‘Hello,’ the little girl says shyly, winding herself round her mum’s legs, like a cat.
‘Come on in and get set up then,’ says Julie. ‘And I’ll get the kettle on.’
Forty minutes later and the party’s underway. Dad proves to be surprisingly helpful setting up but what’s even more astounding is how much Lexie takes to him. She still isn’t one hundred percent about me, the weirdo in the blue curly wig – who can blame her. Ray however, the ageing felon, she loves.
As I watch him chasing her round the room, whipping her up into a state of hyper excitement I feel a stabbing pain of regret for all the years of fathering I missed out on as a kid. Now is not the time to start wallowing or getting maudlin however so I force myself to focus back on the task in hand. A handful of kids have arrived by now and more are on their way in.
Ten minutes later, a small crowd is gathered round me cross-legged on the floor. ‘So, has anyone seen my friend, Harry the hedgehog?’ I say.
‘He’s behind you,’ they chorus frantically, and they’re right. However, a children’s entertainer is required to pretend to be not only blind, but deaf and unbelievably dense too. Of course, the truth of the matter is that my hand’s wedged up Harry’s backside, so not knowing where he is, probably pushes the realms of feasibility. However, small children never seem to question my horrific powers of observation and these are no exception. And I know they aren’t just being polite and thinking, ‘Poor old dear. Doesn’t even know where the puppet is when it’s wedged on her own hand,’ because small children don’t suffer from such social constraints and always say what they’re really thinking. Which is wh
y when one little boy asks Ray if he’s a grumpy pirate, it’s so funny. To be fair I can completely see where he’s coming from.
Fortunately Dad takes it in good humour and replies that that’s exactly what he is, for which I’m very grateful. Things could have got awkward if he’d said, ‘No you little shit, I am not a bleedin’ grumpy pirate.’
I glance across to Ray. He’s sitting astride a kitchen chair, seemingly tickled pink to see me in action and laughing his head off. Mostly at me I’m sure, but actually having him here is really nice. Nobody’s seen me ‘doing my stuff’ before and it makes a nice change. Then a late arrival changes my mood.
For entering the room in patent party shoes and an outfit that screams, ‘I dressed myself and my parents went with it,’ is none other than Maisie. As in Simon’s daughter. Nightmare!
Thankfully, however, Simon is nowhere to be seen, for attached to Maisie’s hand is a woman I can only presume to be ‘mummy’. Mummy’s predictably gorgeous though. I feel a pang of pity for her for being married to an unfaithful shitbag.
A little girl interrupts my reverie. ‘Why aren’t you saying anything? You said you were going to do magic.’
With a start I realise lots of small indignant faces are staring at me so I get back to the trick in hand though inevitably brat fink sees to it that it isn’t long before our previous history comes to light.
‘I don’t like that clown,’ I hear Maisie lisping evilly from the other side of the room, pointing her stubby finger in my direction. ‘That clown sucks.’
‘Maisie,’ implores her mother indulgently. I wait for her to admonish her but she doesn’t. Hence, why one should always blame the parents. Still, soon enough Mummy leaves, probably looking forward to a Maisie-free few hours – I know I would be – at which point I relax. I’m not worried. I can handle four-year-old Maisie who simply isn’t a worthy adversary.
At tea-time Dad and I sneak into the garden for a breather from all the chaos and noise inside.