by Anna Maxted
It was one of the most honest responses I’d got, and for some perverse reason, it had cheered me up.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I bought you a book. It’s brilliant. I thought you might like it.’
She held out a hand. I gave her the bag, and she took out The Woman in White. ‘I’ve read it,’ she said, and handed it back.
‘What!’ I said. ‘You’ve read The Woman in White and you didn’t bother recommending it to me?’
Martine tried not to grin and failed. ‘I was in a mood with you.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I think I finally realised that.’ I paused. ‘Look. I don’t think you’re stupid.’
‘Not any more, you mean.’
I suppose it was best to be straight. ‘Not any more.’
At last, she smiled. ‘Marvin’s waiting. But come round later? About eight?’
‘Great,’ I said, and turned to go.
‘Oi.’ I turned back. ‘Give us the book, then.’
‘But you’ve read it.’
‘I’m not turning down the only freebie I’ve ever got off you.’
I thought that was terrible, so I turned up with flowers. Not my style.
‘Not your style,’ said Martine, opening the door.
I’m sorry to say that I hadn’t been to her flat since she’d bought it. It was in a rough area, and teeny-tiny. I went round soon after she moved in, a year ago, and it was disgusting. The bathroom was minuscule and reeked of backed-up drains. She’d forgotten to shut the door when she’d left for work and it had stunk out the entire flat. The whole place, including the lounge, was floored in terracotta tiles.
Now, it was unrecognisable. The walls were soft shades of lilac and yellow and pink, all lit with upside-down lighting. There was that straw matting stuff that’s so fashionable. All the windows had wooden blinds. The bathroom was glossy, and white, with stone tiles. The bath itself was a clawfoot. Not my ideal, but pretty damn respectable. The kitchen was chrome and showroom standard. Martine caught me staring.
‘Ikea,’ she said.
I hate Ikea, having never forgiven them for a wood veneer flat-pack filing cabinet that cost three hundred quid and wouldn’t shut properly. But other people used Ikea to work miracles.
‘This is fantastic,’ I said. ‘It’s beautiful. You’ve made it so beautiful.’
‘My brothers helped,’ she said. ‘But I designed where stuff was to go.’
We sat in the lounge, on firm, angular cream sofas, surrounded by crammed bookshelves. Martine pressed ‘Play’ on her stereo. ‘You had a classical CD already in there!’ I said, impressed. ‘You walk the talk!’
We ate a salad Martine had prepared, as she was on a diet. Ten minutes later, she was on the phone to Pizza Hut. I was interrogating her about her new bathroom when she suddenly said, ‘This is awkward.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, taking a bite and pulling the pizza slice away from my face, creating a string of cheese as long as the Golden Gate Bridge. ‘Lucky we’re not being filmed.’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Martine. She heaved herself up, and thundered into the kitchen. A drawer was pulled open and I heard sounds of rummaging. Then she returned with a newspaper cutting. She wafted it in front of me but wouldn’t let me hold it. ‘It’s from the Ham & High.’
‘What?’ I said, squinting. ‘“FETID MEAT AT WEDDING HORROR”?’
‘No! Next to that one. It’s an article about Jack. Well, not Jack – one of his clients, an actress. She’s local, and Jack got her her big break. In a Hollywood movie. She played Sharon Stone’s granddaughter … oh, the point is, I saw it, six months ago, and I recognised Jack’s name. Your dad was always going on about being famous—’
‘Not to me, he wasn’t!’
‘No. I don’t think he told many people.’
I looked down at the rest of my pizza, and scowled.
Martine paused, respectfully, then said, ‘So I said to him that maybe Jack would take him on, and he said, hardly, seeing as he’s divorced from Hannah and they’ve not been in contact since, and then, all that bother happened with Jason, and when Jason was nagging you to make your peace with Jack, it was perfect timing for your dad. I did feel bad about him pretending it was because he thought Jack was better for you than Jason, but I was so angry with you for—’
I held up a hand. ‘Oh, Martine. It doesn’t matter.’
‘You don’t hate me?’
‘I think you’re a bit of a mean cow—’
She grinned.
‘And I’ll never cross you again—’
She nodded happily.
‘But I don’t blame you, I blame him. Roger.’
‘Yeah?’
‘He … charms people. He gets them to do things for him when they don’t want to, and makes them think it was their idea.’
Martine nodded, slowly.
I said, in a rush, ‘That scheme is nothing compared to all the other stuff.’
Martine said, ‘What stuff?’ – and with that, I was there till 4 a.m.
At approximately three thirty-five, Martine sat up, demolished a Picnic bar in two bites, and called me a ‘thickie’.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘you tell me all this about Angela – how, when you were little, she swings from being hyper, making you continental breakfasts and all that, to not being able to get out of bed.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘And, like, how she says now that she had unchartered moods and Roger couldn’t take it.’
‘Yes,’ I’d said.
‘Well!’ Martine shouted. ‘Hell-o! She’s had post-natal depression. Your dad’s just ignored it, hoped it would go away. He’s punished her for being miserable, like it’s been her fault! No wonder she’s gone and had the affair! Poor love!’
‘Post-natal depression,’ I said. ‘But … how can that be right? Angela loved us. It got a bit much for her sometimes, but she would never have hurt us.’
‘Berk,’ Martine said. ‘Having PND doesn’t mean you hurt or hate your baby. It can do. I’m not claiming all women love their babies, I’m not claiming that. I mean, some women don’t bond with their babies instantly. It’s not like they’re irresistible cute, like a, a, a puppy. Sometimes it takes a while.’
‘Right.’
Martine paused. ‘Ask me how I know this.’
‘Sorry! How?’
‘Mum had it.’
‘Get off!’
‘True.’
‘I knew you looked after all your brothers, but I thought your family were just sexist. I’m sorry.’
Martine smiled. ‘I’m sorry for you too.’
‘Oh! Me. Yes.’ I still hadn’t quite connected myself with the problem. ‘So … what happened with your mum?’
‘She had it proper. Illuminations, wanting to kill herself.’
‘Illuminations? Aren’t they … lights?’
‘No, love. They’re when you see things that aren’t there,’ replied Martine kindly.
‘That’s terrible. I don’t think Angela was like that.’
‘There are degrees. But Mum – oh my God. Everything was … left. Like, she’d make as if she was going to scrub the oven, but then she’d stand there, flapping her hands – was that a good idea, if she was going to cook our tea on it? And you knew in the end she weren’t going to do neither. Dad was good. He cooked, cleaned, got her to the doctor. She wouldn’t go. Years, she said there was nothing wrong with her, she was just weary. She was afraid of mental illness. Her gran’s brother hung himself. Also, in those days, there was the stigma.’
‘Still is.’
‘Yeah. True. But Dad didn’t give a toss what anyone else thought.’
‘Roger is obsessed with what everyone else thinks.’
‘Yeah. Roger’s typical of his generation. All anyone wanted then was a perfect, happy family. A career was just … a job back then. The social apsiration—’
‘Aspiration.’
‘The social apsiration was to work in an office nine till
five year after year and come home every day to the little woman who would have dinner on the table, and there’d be four rosy-cheeked kids beaming at you. Roger wanted that. He expected it, like every other bloke of his age. I mean, Angela falling apart must have shocked the life out of him. To Roger, it’s not the plan, it reflects badly on him. He’s scared of being seen as a failure. Neighbours talking, gossip. Him, feeling like his family’s abnormal. He thinks it means he’s failed as a husband and a father – I mean, it’s the ultimate shame. The most important thing for Roger would be that no one gets to know about it. He likes to be included, Roger, likes the right sort of attention. And you know what people are like. They think you’re not normal, they get the idea it’s catching. They start crossing the street. That, Hannah, has got to be your dad’s worst nightmare. So, like, he treats Angela as if she hasn’t got it.’
Martine scraped some olive off her teeth.
‘What …’ I whispered. ‘And what would that mean?’
‘Well, girl. Look at what it’s meant! That poor, poor woman, look at what she’s been through. If I’d known any of this, I’d of spit on him, I tell you. He’s blamed her for something she can’t help. I mean, like, did he allow her to get treatment? Doesn’t sound like it. And then, when she’s so desperate for a bit of kindness, and she goes with that drama bloke, he punishes her even more. And because her mind is, faulty, she lets him. Believes she’s as bad as he says she is. What a prick. I mean, that’s evil.’
‘This is … terrible. I feel … responsible.’
‘Hannah. You were a child. How were you to know what was going on? He played you like he played her.’
‘Poor, poor Angela. I just … what, how did she manage to … live?’
‘Everyone’s different. Mum, she, was always bursting into tears. Banged her head on the wall, made us all scream to see her. Slept all afternoon, up at dawn to, like, stare. Now, I don’t sleep much. I think, I’ll sleep when I’m dead. She just seemed to hate herself. Dad would tell her she was pretty, and she’d burst into tears. If she cut an apple and it was bruised it would make her hate herself.’
‘And … did she get better?’
‘The pills … took away the extremeness. Made her … OK. Not sad. Not happy. Just OK.’
‘She’s still on pills?’
‘Isn’t everyone?’
‘But … post-natal … doesn’t post-natal depression go away when your kids grow up a bit?’
‘Yeah, but with her, she was prone to depression, and this brought it on, and then it was there, for good. But she can function now.’ Martine paused. ‘I don’t know how Angela is now, but you should talk to her.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I will.’
But first, I was going to talk to my brother.
Chapter 43
Gabrielle allowed me to baby-sit with Oliver the following evening, while she went out with a friend ‘for sushi’. We waved her off. I’ve had sushi a few times, and it’s fine, except I always come home after it and eat a large bowl of hot food.
‘That’ll cheer her up,’ said Oliver, as he slammed shut the door. (Precisely two seconds earlier, his wife had asked him to shut it quietly, so as not to wake Jude. Maybe I was a vampire and Gab spoke at the frequency of a bat, because he didn’t slam it maliciously, it was just as if he couldn’t hear her.) He shrugged. ‘I bought her the flowers, and she was nice to me for five minutes.’
Oliver, I realised, was like a baby in that, though his behaviour was not ideal, he did not benefit from being shouted at. I decided to go slow, not blunder in like normal. I said, ‘Have you spoken to Mum?’
Oliver rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Thought I’d give her a bit of space.’
I studied his face. He is scared, I thought.
The cat’s special mummy had once told me that her ex-boyfriend’s smoking had given Chairman Miaow asthma. She always knew when he’d had a wheezing fit because he’d hide under the coffee table (Chairman Miaow, not the boyfriend). Right now, I suspected that Oliver’s understanding of what he was scared of was on a par with Chairman Miaow’s.
I didn’t know how to begin. Maybe I should treat it like I would any investigation: find the subject’s weakest point. Hmm. I looked at Ollie again. He had frozen where he stood, an expression on his face of sheer terror.
‘What is it?’ I said.
‘Shhh!’
I was about to retrieve my metal nail file from my bag when I heard it.
‘A-a-a-ah.’ The sound of a woken baby.
Now Ollie paled, and clutched my arm. ‘Quiet. He might go back to sleep,’ he mouthed.
‘A-a-AH-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. AAAAAAAAAHAAAAAAAH.’
‘You reckon?’ I said.
I smiled sweetly as my brother bounded up the stairs. His weakest point had made itself known.
‘Bugger,’ said Ollie, appearing at the lounge door, fifteen minutes later, with a grinning Jude. ‘He won’t go back to sleep. Every time I lie him flat he gets up, and bangs his head on the bars of his cot on purpose.’
‘The gentleman wants to play,’ I said. ‘Isn’t there an A-4 size note on your fridge saying, “OLLIE NO SWEARING”?’
Ollie deposited Jude on the carpet, where he did a little dance of triumph.
‘Hello, Supercute,’ I said. ‘May I have a kiss?’
Jude stamped over with an exaggerated swagger and smacked his lips on my cheek.
‘Oh, my!’ I touched where he’d kissed. I felt all bashful, like a Southern belle. ‘Well, thank you, Jude. What a great kiss.’
Jude, still walking like a penguin, went over to his toys, pulled out a tennis ball, and gave it to me. ‘Shall we play?’ I said. ‘OK. I’ll throw it and you catch it. Ball to Jude. There!’
Jude picked up the ball, and threw it back. He had a nice overarm. The ball hit my foot. ‘Oh!’ I cried. ‘Good shot, sir! Good shot!’
Jude (rather like Chairman Miaow) had a certain bearing that I felt required the address of ‘sir’.
Jude clapped his hands, and said, ‘Baw.’
‘Baaaaaaallllll!’ I crowed. ‘Yes! Baaaaaawwwllll! Ollie!’ I glanced at my brother. I glanced again. ‘Oliver!’ He was tapping at his laptop. ‘Oliver!’
‘Yes?’ he said, not looking up.
‘Jude wants to throw you the ball.’
‘Mm?’
Ollie looked up, glazed. Jude stood still, holding the ball, an uncertain smile on his face. It fucking broke my heart to see it.
‘Your son wants to throw you the ball,’ I said.
‘Aaah,’ said Oliver, finally. ‘Throw the ball.’
Jude did a wiggle, and threw the ball. It landed smack on the keyboard. ‘No,’ said Oliver. ‘Naughty! Bad!’
‘Jesus, Oliver. He didn’t do it on purpose,’ I said. ‘Anyway, it was your fault. You should have put down the laptop.’
It was too late. The corners of Jude’s mouth twitched down in, at the risk of sounding mean, a highly comic fashion. This happened several times, then he started howling.
I glared at my brother.
‘Awwww,’ said Ollie, scooping him up. ‘I’m sorry. Silly Daddy. Come on now. You’re really tired. Bedtime. Say night night to Auntie Hannah.’
‘Night night, Beautiful,’ I said, and kissed his fat cheek.
Oliver was back tapping on his laptop in under two minutes. There was silence from upstairs.
I sat for a while, watching him. God, I thought, you might as well be in China. My heart pounded. Please, Jason, tell me I was never like this. A squirmy feeling in my gut gave me the answer.
I knew his weak point, yet I still didn’t know where to begin. I would just say something and go from there. ‘Does being a dad make you sympathise with Roger?’
‘What do you mean?’ said Ollie. He looked up.
I smiled. ‘Oh, nothing. Just that when I see you with Jude, it reminds me of Roger with you.’
This was a lie, as I didn’t remember Roger with Oliver at this age for the very good reason tha
t I hadn’t yet been born. However, I had it on reliable authority that Roger was useless with babies – from Roger himself. (‘Babies! Pointless creatures! Utterly boring until they’re four! Much prefer dogs,’ etc. etc.)
Ollie shut his laptop. ‘I am not like Roger,’ he said.
‘No, it’s just when I see you play with your little boy from behind a shield, I think, yes, it must be hard for Ollie to put down that barrier, let that love hit him like a speeding train.’
‘What?’
I paused. ‘Jude loves, depends on you. That’s a big scary responsibility. You might not be up to it. So you have a shield up the whole time he’s in the room, so he can’t get to you.’
‘What?’
‘Seeing you afraid of Jude—’
‘I’m not afraid of Jude!’
‘Well, you plainly are because you don’t dare face him. You’re distant, you’re half there.’
‘Is my laptop a shield?’ said Ollie. I didn’t think he was asking me.
‘Roger was so scared that he might be seen as a failure, that he was a failure. He couldn’t connect with Angela, or you. He failed all of us. I only just realised it, that he failed me, and Angela. I know he failed you too, because I see how you are with him, but I don’t know for sure because no one ever talks. I see you distancing yourself from Jude. I see you backing away from Gab, because she has had’ – and here I introduced my great idea – ‘post-natal depression, like Mum. I see that you’re paralysed with fear in case it all falls apart.’
Ollie shook his head. ‘I’m not like Roger,’ he croaked. ‘And Gab is not like Mum was. No matter how nuts Gab’s been, she’s always there for Jude, big smile on her face. After you were born, Mum, she was … weird. Grandma Nellie said, when you learnt to smile you’d smile at her and sometimes she was so in herself she wouldn’t smile back. She’d just … stare at you, with this little frown. And Grandma Nellie says one time she was there, you got this puzzled look and stopped smiling. She said it made her want to weep. Gab is not like Mum. Gab just needs chivvying along a bit—’