Madame Doubtfire

by Anne Fine

Christopher, however, was far too taken up with unfolding his case to pay any attention to the look in his father’s eyes.

  ‘So it’s not as if you were exhausted with acting each evening. You could have acted a bit the rest of the time.’

  ‘Perhaps I could.’

  The tone was dangerous now, but still Christopher failed to notice.

  ‘It wouldn’t have been that hard, would it? You said yourself that it’s only a job, and you don’t have to have the right feelings behind you. “You simply act the part.” That’s what you said.’

  ‘Yes, I said that.’

  The eyes were narrowing now, and round them was the strained, grey look that Lydia associated with her father’s struggles with Miranda.

  ‘But you didn’t try that out at home?’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Christopher –’ Lydia warned, but Christopher hardly heard.

  ‘If you had taken the trouble to act a little at home,’ he was saying slowly, ‘then you might never have had to leave. There might not have been any separation, or any divorce, and we might all still be together as one family.’

  ‘Possibly,’ snapped Daniel, losing his temper. ‘And possibly I might be locked up in a padded cell now, screaming at the walls!’

  ‘Why?’ Christopher asked in the same false innocence with which Daniel had invited him on to the wrong bus half an hour before. ‘Acting’s only a job, after all. You said so yourself.’

  Daniel took his son by the collar, squeezed hard, and slung him backwards, up against the wall.

  ‘Because, you little bastard,’ he yelled, ‘as you well know, a job’s a job, but real life’s real!’

  Christopher held his breath, too scared even to wriggle. To Lydia, watching, it seemed for ever before her father gradually loosened his fingers under Christopher’s neck, let go, then shoved both hands deep in his pockets as if trying to stop himself striking his son, hard.

  Terrified, Christopher tried to back off.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean any of that, really I didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, you meant every last word of it, you little worm!’ Daniel demolished this grovelling apology. ‘You think I should have stayed in that bloody house, day after day, week after week, year after year, living out some soul-destroying lie with your mother and just pretending it was unpaid acting work!’

  ‘And why not?’

  Astonishingly, this was Lydia.

  Daniel stared.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘That’s right. Why not? You had us. It’s your job to stick it out. You can’t just knock off being a father when you decide you can’t live with your wife!’

  Now Daniel was beside himself with fury.

  ‘How dare you?’ he shouted. ‘How dare you? I never, ever knocked off being your father. I’m here, aren’t I, rain or bloody shine? Stuck in this godforsaken town with no job and no prospects, just to be close to you three, just to see you a couple of times a week, keep being your bloody father! I could have gone to London, you know! There’s more than one theatre there! I could have found work! But no, I stayed here, bored and lonely. Don’t ever tell me again I haven’t stuck at being your father, Lydia! I’ve been as good a father as I can!’ He finished in a tone of real, deep bitterness: ‘As good a father as I’ve been allowed to be, anyhow…’

  The anger was no longer directed at Lydia, and she knew it. And in her drive to understand, she persisted.

  ‘But why leave? You said yourself you’re bored and lonely. Why not just act, like Christopher said?’

  Daniel tore at his hair.

  ‘Because I’m a human being, that’s why! Look at me! I’m real. I eat. I breathe. I think. I feel. I only have one life, and I want to live it, not act another because it fits in with less trouble. I’m not a happy pig!’

  But Lydia was not to be fobbed off with anything so trivial as happy pigs.

  ‘Who said anything about happy pigs? What have happy pigs to do with anything, anyway?’

  At the mere mention of such strange creatures, Christopher let out a nervous giggle. He was still shaken, and he couldn’t help it. Daniel spun round and, as he did so, caught a look of rising terror on his son’s face. Shocked to see how one short brush with a father’s considerably greater physical strength could drain away all a boy’s courage, he reached out to his son, setting himself to mend the rupture between them, and settle things for all of them.

  With one arm round each child, he steered them through the door into the living-room, where Natalie sat hunched in front of the television, to all appearances engrossed in Extended Bowling Highlights.

  Gently, he prised her fingers out of her ears.

  ‘Row over, Natty,’ he assured her.

  But the quarrel had sounded so fierce, even through the closed door, that Natalie still looked at Daniel with suspicion.

  ‘No more getting cross with Christopher?’

  ‘No more getting cross with Christopher.’

  ‘And no more shouting about happy pigs?’

  ‘No, no more shouting about happy pigs.’

  ‘What was all that happy pig stuff anyhow?’ asked Lydia.

  Daniel tried to explain.

  ‘It’s just that some things are important. People are prepared to suffer for them. Some feel that way about the things they do. “Better to be a discontented poet,” said one of the great philosophers, “than a contented pig.”’

  The children thought about it.

  ‘I suppose I’d think it better to be the poet…’ admitted Lydia after a while.

  ‘So would I,’ Christopher grudgingly agreed.

  ‘I’d be the pig,’ said Natalie. ‘I’d definitely be the pig. I like pigs, and you said it was happy.’

  ‘But some people can’t be happy unless the life they’re living is real,’ Daniel said. ‘Not just an act, like on a stage, to avoid rows and trouble. And I’m like that. Rather than go through my days acting to have a quiet life, I’d choose not to pretend, even if it ends me up in worse trouble.’

  ‘And everyone else, too?’

  Natalie, too, then. What did she think about when she sat with her fingers in her ears?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he told her, told all three of them. ‘I’m truly, truly sorry.’

  Natalie sighed.

  ‘Never mind,’ she comforted him. ‘It’s not too bad.’

  ‘No,’ Christopher generously agreed. ‘It’s not too bad.’

  ‘Lydia?’

  Lydia felt it was not a father’s business to trawl for absolution in this way. But she was sick of the whole business. Things were as they were. To keep peace, she agreed.

  ‘No, not too bad.’

  ‘But I am sorry, anyway…’

  ‘It’s all right, honestly.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What?’ Daniel was getting edgy. ‘You were about to say something. What were you going to say?’

  Lydia scoured the ceiling for help.

  ‘I was just going to say that, since we have to share in all the trouble, maybe the three of us shouldn’t have to act in our lives, either.’

  ‘Act? You three? How?’

  Lydia shrugged.

  ‘Madame Doubtfire…’

  ‘Madame Doubtfire?’

  ‘Yes, Madame Doubtfire.’ Before he could misunderstand, she rushed into an explanation. ‘Oh, I know that you only did it for us. We’ve not forgotten that. But it’s not right.’ She tensed her fingers, searching for the words to tell him. ‘It’s all right for you, you see. It’s like a game. You go off home at ten to seven each evening, and you can be yourself all night and all the next day till you come again. We have to stay there.’

  ‘It’s difficult?’

  ‘It’s not just difficult,’ Lydia informed him. ‘It’s almost impossible.’ She stabbed a finger meaningfully at Natalie. ‘Some people have even given up trying. And
, not only that, but it isn’t even worth it. It’s not as if Madame Doubtfire is really you, after all. It’s not like seeing you here, or spending time properly with you. You can’t be Dad. And so it’s almost as if, for all you’ve gone to such an effort to buy the clothes, and make the turbans, and act it out for us, it doesn’t count.’

  Daniel made as though to interrupt her, then changed his mind. Lydia went on:

  ‘I couldn’t work out what was wrong before. It didn’t feel right, but I didn’t know why. But maybe it’s just the same problem you had, the happy pig problem. Since Madame Doubtfire isn’t really you, she isn’t worth so much.’

  ‘I’ve felt that,’ Christopher burst out. ‘And I don’t feel as if I’m seeing much more of you, either.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, I prefer seeing you here, with all your –’ Out of good manners, he stifled the word ‘mess’. ‘With all your things.’

  ‘You still come,’ Daniel pointed out. ‘You’re here now, aren’t you?’

  Christopher’s nervousness revived.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And we should be getting back.’

  ‘I’m sure Wolverhampton’s quite close to here, really,’ said Lydia.

  Natalie’s face changed.

  ‘Is Mummy waiting for us?’ she asked anxiously.

  On cue, the phone began to ring.

  Daniel snorted.

  ‘Waiting, indeed! Not like your mother to wait patiently. See! Here she is, ordering you “home”.’

  He rose.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ he told them. ‘I’ll show you acting finer than any you’ll see in a theatre.’ He stepped out, holding the door ajar with his heel, and hauled the phone with its cord back in the room before lifting the receiver.

  The children listened to his side of the call, and had no difficulty at all imagining the other.

  ‘Lovely to hear from you, Mandy. Such a surprise! Thought you’d still be penned up in some Wolverhampton traffic jam… What? Seven o’clock already? Surely not! God, so it is… Want them back at once? Of course you do. It’s your weekend on the schedule, after all… And no, I won’t forget their coats this time, either… Yes, I quite understand. You’ve driven for hours today, and don’t feel like dragging out again directly… Yes, I do realize that it’s not your fault that I don’t earn enough nude-modelling to run a car, but I’m not quite sure I see what… What? You’ve ordered a taxi to come round here and pick them up? And you think I should pay for it…? Well, now you come to mention it, not much, no, after buying all those theatre tickets… Yes, maybe I should have thought about that sooner, but I didn’t… What? Not worth what? Heard what from Mrs Hooper? The most unsuitable play one could possibly have chosen for children? Said that, did she? Oh, dear me… So sorry, Miranda… Yes, Miranda… Yes, Miranda… Sorry, Miranda… Yes, goodbye, Miranda…’

  Exhausted, he held the receiver out to Lydia.

  ‘Here, your mother wants a quick word with you.’

  Lydia took the receiver, and Daniel reeled around the room, muttering: ‘Yes, Miranda… Agreed, Miranda… Naturally, Miranda… You’re quite right, Miranda… Three bags full, Miranda… Oh, what a happy pig am I, Miranda…’

  Lydia’s half of the call with her mother ran along much the same lines.

  ‘Yes, Mum… No, Mum… Yes, we’ll keep an eye out of the window… No, I won’t let him forget the coats… Yes, I’ll tell him… No, I’ll make sure he remembers… No, Mum… Yes, Mum… Well, I quite enjoyed it, actually. Bye then, Mum. Bye.’

  Daniel was absolutely outraged.

  ‘Quite enjoyed it? Quite enjoyed it? “Brilliant”, you said. The best thing you had ever seen!’

  Christopher grinned. ‘Maybe Lydia’s inherited your gift for acting.’

  Lydia looked thoughtful.

  ‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t a very real phone call, was it? No better than Dad’s, really.’

  ‘Look on the bright side,’ said Christopher. ‘You got through it.’

  ‘Happy as a pig,’ said Natalie.

  Only Lydia failed to smile.

  ‘We could all stop.’

  ‘Stop?’

  ‘All stop what?’

  ‘Acting. And being happy pigs. We could all say what we really were thinking.’

  ‘If everyone did that,’ warned Daniel, ‘the world would turn into a bear garden.’

  ‘Would it?’

  Natalie was fascinated. She was still sitting hugging her knees, trying to imagine a bear garden, when the taxi arrived.

  Daniel pressed his last few pounds into Lydia’s hand.

  ‘I’ll bring you the change next week,’ she assured him.

  ‘I’ll see you Monday,’ Daniel reminded her.

  ‘Oh, yes! Of course!’

  She ran down the stairs after the others. Daniel went to the window and threw it open. Christopher and Natalie had just dived into the taxi. Daniel called down to Lydia:

  ‘You realize that, if you mean it, if there’s to be no more acting, no more happy pigs, Madame Doubtfire will have to hand in her notice?’

  Lydia waved cheerfully enough through the taxi window.

  ‘We’ll think of some other way to see a bit more of you!’

  ‘There is only one other way,’ Daniel warned.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Tell you on Monday!’ Daniel yelled.

  As the taxi drew away, he slid open an imaginary panel in front of him, keyed in the three imaginary top secret codes, and waited for the imaginary silos to open.

  ‘War,’ he said softly. ‘Total war.’

  And he watched his imaginary warheads making for Springer Avenue, on the horizon.

  Chapter Eight

  Funny, that’s just what Mum always says

  Daniel spent the bus ride to Springer Avenue on Monday admiring Madame Doubtfire’s letter of notice. In the back of a drawer, he had found some pale pink notepaper given to him for Christmas by Natalie a couple of years back. It was bordered with colourful, if somewhat botanically flawed, pansies. Across this paper the curvy, looping, old-fashioned handwriting he’d spent the evening practising flowed through the equally curvy, looping, old fashioned phrases: ‘… in accordance with our verbal undertaking to give one another two full weeks’ notice… owing to unavoidable circumstances… cease to consider myself in your employ as from Friday week… must say how very much I have enjoyed the company of your absolutely charming children… dare to suggest they might benefit, perhaps, from a little more contact with their father… hope this untimely curtailment of our mutually beneficial arrangement proves not to incommode you as much as it saddens me… the most warm regards…’, and then, in the floweriest of all the signatures Daniel had contrived and the one of which he was most particularly proud:

  Yes. No doubt about it. It was an excellent letter of notice: sensitive, firm – and inexplicable. Folding it carefully to replace it in its pansy-infested envelope, Daniel stepped off the bus, deep in thought. As soon as the children saw the letter, he knew, they would start clamouring to know Madame Doubtfire’s middle name, and he was torn. Was it to be Daphnis? Deirdre? Or just plain, boring old Dolores? It was so hard to choose… In the middle of his reflections, the feather boa around his neck was disarranged by a fierce blast of exhaust from the departing bus. Fishing over his shoulder for floating ends, Daniel walked past next door’s garden without his usual cautious survey. Mistake. For just as he turned into Miranda’s pathway, Mrs Hooper pounced.

  The red, round face, framed with a jumble of grey curls, rose without warning above the fence.

  ‘Oh, Madame Doubtfire! Look at them! Look at them! What can be done?’

  Forced to stop in his tracks, Daniel pocketed Madame Doubtfire’s letter of notice, lifted his skirts, and picked his way across the muddy flower beds to where Mrs Hooper stood, pointing to something in her own garden.

  ‘Oh, Madame Doubtfire, what do you think?’

  Daniel peered over. It wasn’t at all clear to which particular ho
rticultural disaster she was referring; and Daniel, frankly, didn’t much care. There was a deep fund of resentment within him against this old neighbour. She had caused him a good deal of trouble recently. First, that abysmal and offensive painting. He’d not forgive her easily for that. Then this appalling mix-up with the art class. He still hadn’t worked out how he was going to manage to be two people at once all tomorrow morning. And, on top of everything, those quite unsolicited remarks to Miranda about the unsuitability of the play he’d chosen for the children. They hadn’t gone down at all well.

  He reached up and straightened his turban against the sharp breeze.

  ‘Is that canker I spy on your prunus?’ he cooed.

  ‘Canker? On my prunus?’ Mrs Hooper looked anxious. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘I wasn’t saying it was,’ Madame Doubtfire assured her. ‘I was only suggesting it might be. It only looks as if it is. And then, one does so often find it flourishing where there are other garden diseases…’

  ‘Other garden diseases?’

  Daniel noted with satisfaction that Mrs Hooper’s face had turned just a little bit redder, and her tone of voice a shade less confiding and neighbourly. He pressed home his advantage.

  ‘Well yes, dear. Not that I’m an expert…’ Madame Doubtfire shrugged in a modest, self-deprecating fashion that both gave Mrs Hooper to understand clearly that she was, and sent the feather boa slithering uncontrollably down her back into the wallflowers. ‘But all the other neighbours have mentioned often enough, over the fence, how you have had your little problems…’

  ‘Little problems?’

  The face was very red indeed now.

  ‘Oh, nothing serious! Nothing serious at all!’ At the very idea of the diseases being serious, Madame Doubt-fire gave a little laugh. ‘Just the rust on your hollyhocks, dear. And the club root on your brussels. The mildew all over your gooseberries. That crown gall that spoils your roses…’

  Mrs Hooper had turned turkey-wattle scarlet with rage. She was so angry, she was speechless.

  ‘Nothing important at all,’ Madame Doubtfire soothed. ‘Nothing at all. Though Mr Fairway has mentioned once or twice that on your spuds last year there was some very nasty blackleg.’