by Anna Maxted
‘What will you do?’ I said.
‘No idea,’ said Gabrielle, in a sing-song voice.
‘Can’t you get another nanny?’
‘I can get a psycho, who doesn’t like kids, no problem. I can get a sixteen-year-old with no GCSEs. I can get a girl who speaks two words of English – the girls who speak three words are all snapped up – I can get a fifty-six-year-old who’s waiting for a hip replacement operation. Darling, away from the video! Away! Good boy! No, don’t press that! Hannah, it is near impossible to find a good nanny who wants to work part time, it’s going to take me bloody months, and what am I going to do until then, I’ve got work, I—’
‘Can’t your mother help?’
‘Yes, but not day in, day out! She’s in Puerto Banus right now, anyway. She has her own life. Sweetheart, no! Not the TV! Away! Thank you! No, don’t press that! She adores him, she likes showing him off, but she doesn’t like changing nappies. He comes home from her with the fattest nappy you ever—’
‘What about Ollie?’
‘Well, he’s off on jobs most of the time. And when he’s home … he’s OK, but he’s … distracted. He doesn’t quite realise that you can’t leave a baby to do its own thing. And he doesn’t do things right. I’m always having to correct him.’
And as we all know, there’s nothing men love more than being corrected.
‘Gab,’ I said, ‘what are you doing today?’
‘Looking after my son.’
‘How about I look after him?’
‘What?’
Quite. ‘Give you a break for the afternoon.’
‘But you’re at work, Hannah.’
‘It’ll be fine. No one will mind.’ Lie, lie.
‘Darling, it’s very kind of you, but he takes some looking after. No! Jude! No, darling, we don’t eat money, we spend it. You can’t prop him in a corner with a good book. You have to entertain him. You have to watch him every second. I mean that. He’s easily bored. And he needs a drink mid-afternoon. And it’s important that you respond positively when he speaks to you – well, he doesn’t exactly speak, it’s mostly gabble, except for a few key words—’
‘He sounds like every man I know. I’ll be fine. So, er, what are the key words?’
‘Apple. Door. Daddy. Boob. All men are greeted as “daddy”, all women are greeted as “boob”.
Good Lord, what kind of a man was she raising here? Gabrielle must have sensed my disapproval as she added, ‘It’s normal, for breastfed babies, OK? Look, maybe this is a bad idea. Like, have you ever even changed a nappy? No! Honey, no! Not Mummy’s sunglasses. Give them to – oh, oh, OK, keep them.’
‘I haven’t but … Greg, my boss, must have. He’s got four boys. We’ll manage.’
‘He needs to be taken out for a walk.’
‘Greg? Oh, Jude, yes, of course. No problem.’
‘Are you sure you’re up for this? Aren’t you terribly busy? You will keep him safe? You won’t take him on any assignments? I mean … it would help me out. I’ve got a client coming for her final fitting at three. But – oh, all right, I’ll give him lunch then drop him off.’
‘What’s that?’ said Greg, pointing at Jude.
‘A puppy.’ (Well, if he didn’t know.)
‘What is it doing in my office?’
‘I’m his aunt, it was an emerg—’
‘Hiiiiiiii!’
I grinned, and so did Greg. Jude had greeted my boss with an exaggerated enthusiasm mainly found in those who work in television.
‘Hello, son!’
‘Up!’
Jude held out his arms. Nice work.
Greg knelt and lifted Jude out of the buggy. ‘Ma!’ said Jude, pointing at me. His other hand was round Greg’s neck. I could see Greg going all misty-eyed. Then, as I relaxed, Jude stuck a finger up Greg’s nose and scraped it down again.
‘God!’ gasped Greg. His eyes watered. ‘Cut your nails, son.’ He handed Jude back. I sagged under his weight.
‘So, how are you planning to do your—’ Greg paused. ‘I have exactly the job for you. This is perfect.’
I didn’t like the sound of this.
Five minutes later, I was watching Jude chewing my keys, and wondering if I should call Gabrielle. I didn’t want to bother her. Or worry her. She might not appreciate me using her child as cover. Here was the scenario. The Legal Aid Board, through their solicitors, had approached Greg on behalf of a client. He was divorced, paying child maintenance. But he suspected that his ex-wife had a live-in boyfriend. In which case, he was entitled to drag her back to court and appeal to pay less maintenance.
To prove cohabitation, he had to have evidence that the partner was staying in her house three consecutive nights, not including the weekend. Greg would be looking at late night attendance, early mornings, some indication that the boyfriend was still at the house. All he’d need would be a couple of stills – photographs – enough to give the court reason to question that the woman was single. Greg would do the late night work himself, or get someone like Ron to do it. What he wanted me to do was go to the child’s school, with Jude in his pushchair, to see who picked up the child. No one looks twice at a woman pushing a baby in a buggy, but a man outside a school on his own is conspicuous.
We had a rucksack with a tiny camera in the strap. I could hold it at a good height. What Greg hoped for was that the mother and the new boyfriend would pick up the kid together and get into a car. We’d need the registration. Then, if it was the boyfriend’s car, we’d follow them – or Ron would – to see if they went back to his or her house. Jude and I were to be ‘one team’. Ron would be nearby in a car, ready to go. Greg had given me a photo of the mother, Lara. She was thin with long lank brown hair and dry skin, and her back teeth were missing. She didn’t look like a woman who was rolling in cash.
‘Aaaaaa!’ said Jude, holding out the keys.
‘Thank you very much,’ I said. ‘Very kind. Would you, er, care to play with my laptop?’
I hauled him onto my knees, and he grabbed at my keyboard, ripping off five keys, D, S, K, F and U.
Now it was my turn to say, ‘Aaaaaaa!’
For some reason, this made Jude laugh. He was quite an accomplished laugher. He tipped his head back, and laughed with his mouth open, showing all six teeth. It was just lovely, and I laughed too. We repeated the ‘Aaaaaa!’/ laugh process fifty times. Greg wandered by my office. ‘You should get going,’ he said, ‘if you’re going to catch her.’
‘Right,’ I said.
Jude groaned. I looked down and he was purple in the face.
‘Oh Jesus,’ I shrieked, ‘he’s having a fit, call an ambu—’
‘That’s an I’m Doing A Pooh face,’ said Greg. ‘All men make that face on the toilet.’
I put my hand over my heart, and sighed. Then I looked at Greg, slyly. ‘I’d better rush, so would you mind …?’
I pushed Jude slowly up the road towards the school. He cooed to himself and greeted a wino, who staggered past us, with a wave and a great big ‘Hiiiiiii!’
Lara, the subject, also had a boy. He was five. Charlie. I wondered how much the court would reduce his mother’s maintenance payments if I proved that the boyfriend was live-in. Strange reasoning. In my experience, the average live-in boyfriend is a moneypit. If anything, Lara needed her maintenance doubled. I thought about what she wouldn’t be able to buy Charlie when I handed over my evidence. A tricycle? Ice cream? Shoes?
I swerved left and took Jude to the park instead.
We sat together on the roundabout, and I called Ron. ‘She’s by herself,’ I said. ‘There’s no one else. And –’ as I twisted something I shouldn’t – ‘the camera’s jammed. I’ll come back tomorrow, get some victor then.’
‘Fuck,’ he said. Like it mattered to him.
I sat Jude on the swing, swept him down the slide. Then I gave him his milk, as Gabrielle had commanded. He roared briefly when I placed him back in his buggy, then went quiet. I thought he
was sulking, but when I looked he was asleep. His long dark lashes glistened with tears, and his rosebud lips were slightly apart. God, I thought, I am doing this right. And I felt a rush of love.
‘Love,’ I said aloud. The word didn’t make me shudder like it normally did.
I returned to the office, apologetic.
‘I think they’re wrong,’ I told Greg. ‘But I couldn’t get any footage, the camera’s busted. How about I try again tomorrow? Or I could sit on the address tonight, if you like.’
‘Funny,’ said Greg. ‘It seemed fine. But yeah, tonight’d be good. Though Ron’s keen. Cheaper for me if you do it, though.’
‘No problem.’ I wiped my supposed moustache. I was sweating, and not only because of the summer heat. It was scary, lying to Greg. He was trained to spot liars.
‘By the way, the kid’s mother called. I told her you were out on a job and the baby was fine. Oh, and your dad rang. He didn’t sound too happy.’
I stared after Greg as he marched back into his office. Did he know what he had done?
Almost immediately Gabrielle walked in with a face like granite. She saw Jude was asleep, gently shut the door, and dragged me into the corridor by my arm. Then she said, in a very quiet voice, ‘I thought I could trust you, can I not trust you, what did I say, what did I specifically order you NOT to do, and you bloody go and do it, you just had to use him, a little baby, for your stupid job, you couldn’t just enjoy his company, appreciate him for what he is, your nephew, you have no respect, no respect for anyone, you are a cold, cold, sad person, how dare you, how dare you endanger my child, and after all I’ve done for you and that idiot Jason, after all I said to you, you sicken me—’
‘But I – I –’ I tried to glance casually, behind me, to see if Greg’s office door was open. It was and he was looking straight at me. I turned back. ‘He was never in any danger, I swear to God. But I’m really sorry, Gab. I really am.’
I tried to tell her with my eyes that I couldn’t speak now, but she was too angry to take the hint.
‘You know what, Hannah,’ she said. ‘I don’t say sorry. Because I think it doesn’t mean anything.’
Then she pushed me out of the way, retrieved Jude in his pushchair, and wheeled him out, her jaw clenched. I lumbered back into my office, shut the door, and muttered into my hands. I’d try to explain later. But in the mood Gab was in, I knew I’d have a hard time persuading her to believe me.
Then I called my father. I hoped that my engagement to Jason would cheer him and endear me to him. At least he’d called, even if he had sounded stern. On our last encounter he’d decided that I was a cheat and turfed me out the house. He’d made contact and that had to be good.
It wasn’t.
He’d called to tell me my grandmother had died.
Chapter 22
Most days, my conscience lies around eating crisps. It had roused itself in a half-arsed way about Grandma Nellie, though, which made me despise it. I hadn’t agreed to go and see Grandma Nellie out of the goodness of my heart. I’d agreed to go and see her because I hadn’t wanted her to die resenting me. In which case, she’d had the last laugh.
‘But it was only a mild stroke,’ I said, when Roger told me.
‘Yes, well, the second one made up for that,’ he replied.
It was a strange way to put it, but people say odd things when they’re upset.
‘Poor Mum. How is she?’
Normally we do not discuss my mother’s emotions. The assumption is, whatever they are, they’re her own fault.
‘She’s at the home, clearing Nellie’s room.’
‘Oh.’
He hadn’t answered my question but I didn’t press it. His tone suggested that I hadn’t yet been forgiven.
‘What was the name of that home again?’ I said.
‘Hannah, I haven’t the faintest.’
‘OK. Never mind.’
I rang my mother on her mobile. I had the number somewhere.
‘Hello?’
‘Mum. It’s Hannah. I’m so sorry about Grandma Nellie. How is she?’ Oh God. ‘I mean, how are you? How are you?’
My mother was silent.
‘Are you OK? I mean, I know you’re not OK, but …’
Silence.
‘Do you need me to do anything?’
‘No,’ said my mother. ‘I can manage.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Right. What’s happening with funeral arrangements? Or is Roger taking care of those? Do you need me to help you clear her room, perhaps?’
It was embarrassing, really. Being cold to her all this time, and then, because something horrible had happened, warming a little. I believe this is what people call not having the courage of your convictions. But then, if on this occasion I had had the courage of my convictions, I’d be a monster. I think I’d rather be two-faced than be a monster. Although they sound like the same thing.
‘Roger,’ said my mother, ‘is paying for everything. He’s good at that.’
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ I said – I was relieved. I didn’t like to think that my father was unfeeling.
My mother didn’t reply. She was vague at the best of times.
I repeated the question. ‘So do you need me to help clear her room or anything?’
‘No thank you, Hannah.’
There was a pause.
‘And –’ I stumbled – ‘the funeral arrangements?’
‘Ollie is organising the cremation. Really, there’s nothing for you to do.’
I felt a batsqueak of annoyance. She’d rung Ollie. But it was gone in a blink. She was closer to Ollie because I’d encircled myself with an invisible steel barrier that my mother bounced off every time she came near. Of course she’d rung Ollie. All the same, if you extend the hand of peace, it’s a shock to have it slapped away. Even if you have been holding it behind your back for twenty-five years.
There was something else I didn’t want to say. ‘I’m sorry that I left it too late to visit Grandma Nellie.’
‘You can say your sorries at the cremation, Hannah,’ replied my mother. Grief must be making her rash because she was never this rude to me. I didn’t mind. I liked to see some spark. ‘It’s at Golders Green cemetery next Monday, at eleven.’
‘Hey, isn’t that where Keith Moon from The Who is buried?’ Jesus, shut up.
‘I don’t know,’ said my mother in a flat, dull voice. ‘I’d better get on.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Bye then.’
I changed my mind. I didn’t like to see some spark. Not when it was aimed at me. All those years I’d spent, trying to provoke my mother and failing. And, finally, the death of Grandma Nellie brings success. It didn’t feel the way I thought it would. It made me feel sick to realise that I didn’t want my mother to hate me. Really, sick. I had nausea high in my throat.
Well. I’d make an effort for Grandma Nellie’s funeral. Wear a skirt. Now that I owned one. I had a flash of Grandma Nellie, in earlier days. She wore old-womany clothes and the flashiest Nikes you ever saw. I was always waiting for her to break into a sprint. She had a plump abdomen and skinny legs. Like an insect.
I thought of my mother, also. Months back, I was in my parents’ garden, and I saw Angela sitting in her study. Her desk is by the window. She was staring out at nothing, while taking small, fast bites of bitter chocolate. The only sort she’ll eat. All I know is, a dog would reject that stuff. That image summed her up. It reeked of apathy and self-punishment. But (as people always say after a death because they can’t bear the tedium of others being inconsolable) maybe some good will come out of this. It would be good, I found myself thinking, if my mother recovered some of her spirit.
They kept saying the weather would break, but they were wrong. On Monday, at nine, I sat in the office, wiping the sweat off the back of my neck with my hand. Greg’s fans just flapped the hot air round the room. They were no more use than someone blowing in your face. I’m the first to moan about English weather (dreary, dreary, d
reary, pitch dark at noon from October to February) but, I realised, after the first day of searing heat uncharacteristically occurred in April and continued – bar a drizzling few weeks – into July, that I loathe sunshine.
My weekend had been spent sweltering and alone. Jason was offended that I hadn’t told anyone about the engagement.
‘Jase,’ I’d said, ‘please understand. My family are grieving. It’s not the right time.’
He didn’t understand, and had stomped off on a golfing weekend with his father. ‘It’s like you don’t want to tell anyone,’ was his parting shot.
I might have asked Martine to come out and play, but she was on a hen weekend in Blackpool. If there was time, she was stopping off at the Cadbury’s factory in Birmingham.
Sun is all very well if you live in a hot country and are used to it, but it turns the British into idiots. On Saturday, I hadn’t worn a hat. As with most of my fellow citizens, when sunshine occurs in the UK, I don’t actually believe in it. (It’s the meteorological equivalent of chips not being fattening if consumed standing up.) All that night it felt as if someone was trying to yank the hair off my scalp. After hours of severe pain, I found a piece of haddock in the freezer and pressed it to my aching head. When I rang Martine, expecting sympathy, she laughed. So. A bag of frozen peas is acceptable, but a haddock makes you a weirdo?
All in all, when Monday morning came, I was feeling low. I regretted my obstinacy with Grandma Nellie. Never mind that she was not a chocolate-box grandmother. I knew in my heart that I hadn’t done the right thing and it made me dislike myself. Also, my head was still sore, making me twitchy, I kept darting into the shadows like a vampire. I also had the distinct impression that no one liked me. Not even my family. Especially not my family. Even Martine, a woman who – should a man be fool enough to mate with her – planned to call her children Roquefort and Dolcelatte, had better things to do than spend time with me. And Jason was being such a baby. I tried to console myself that I looked OK, even if no one cared. The irony was, Grandma Nellie would have approved. I had lipstick. I had a hairstyle, my nails were free of dirt, my legs were smooth, my eyebrows were arched, and I’d taken the incentive and snipped all the hairs out of my nostrils. I still hadn’t got the hang of the cover-up stick – all it did was highlight every spot, in a big beige circle, like the rings around Saturn. But altogether, I’d scrubbed up well.