Humphrey was by now in his eighties, and had retired some years ago, but I stayed on as manager of the gallery. I continued to sell my paintings, but I had had to accept that I would never be good enough to make a living from my work, as Edward did.
But while Edward was undoubtedly good, Tavvy was better. Her paintings — wild, colourful and full of life, like Tavvy herself — delighted her teachers, and even before she left school several of them had sold. Many were exuberant abstracts in bright colours; bold swirls of paint interweaving or dancing across the canvas. Some were reminiscent of the French Impressionists (Tavvy particularly admired Gauguin), but there was a wildness and originality which were all her own. There was nothing shy about Tavvy’s work; she had the courage I had lacked, and once she discovered oils, there was no stopping her.
‘So you’re going to be an artist, like your parents?’ people would ask her, and Tavvy was always surprised.
‘Just because I can paint doesn’t mean that’s what I’m going to do as a job,’ she told me, exasperated at what she saw as a ridiculous assumption. ‘No. I’m going to travel and have fun. Then I’ll decide what I’m going to do.’
‘Quite right,’ said Mum, who had called in to see us. ‘Aren’t people silly?’
‘Well, you’ve had to drop your other A levels, so your options are a bit restricted,’ I suggested. ‘Art seems the obvious direction, doesn’t it? At least for the time being. You don’t have to do it forever.’
My mother and Tavvy exchanged despairing glances.
‘Dear old mum.’ Tavvy patted my shoulder.
‘She’s just trying to be sensible,’ my mother said, and they both rocked with laughter. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree; I think the apple that was my daughter had skipped a generation.
But even Mum had to agree that travel must be paid for, so when Tavvy got her one A level, she had to work to earn her gap year. Like Mum, she was not good at holding down a job, and managed to get through four within the first three months.
‘People are so stupid,’ she said, after three weeks as a chambermaid. ‘Do they really think we don’t find what they hide under their mattresses? I handed this customer his magazine, with a perfectly straight face, and said “I believe this is yours, sir”, and he complained to the manager, and I was sacked.’ She laughed, ‘Oh, Mum. You should have seen it! All those naked bodies! And you’ve no idea what they were doing to each other. Men and women, two or three at a time, too. I wish I’d been able to keep it. Gran would have been fascinated!’
Eventually Tavvy found her niche, helping out at a day nursery, and while the manager frequently questioned some of the more unusual games she invented to entertain the children, her small charges and their parents thought the world of her.
After several months, Tavvy had saved up enough money for her expedition, and my house began to fill up with all the impedimenta of the backpacker. Wherever I went, I seemed to trip over camping equipment and hiking boots, insect repellent and mosquito nets. Typically, she had refused the services of gap year organizations or anyone else who might have been of assistance, preferring to plan her own itinerary. Her plans were typically vague, involving little more than, as she put it, ‘taking off and seeing what happens’, and were more than a little reminiscent of Mum’s famous holiday.
‘On your own?’ I asked fearfully, when Tavvy told us of her intentions. ‘Is it safe to go on your own?’
‘Oh, Mum. Lots of people do it. I’ll be fine.’
‘I’d feel much happier if there was someone with you.’
‘I did ask around, but no one wanted to come. Anyway, it’ll be more fun on my own. I can do what I like.’
‘Don’t you always?’ Edward asked mildly.
‘Oh, Dad! Don’t be so stuffy! In any case, isn’t that what you love about me?’
‘Surely you ought at least to have some sort of itinerary,’ I said.
‘Why? This will be much more exciting,’ Tavvy said. ‘I’ll start with Peru, and see where that takes me. After all, if Peru was good enough for Paddington Bear, it’s good enough for me.’
‘Paddington Bear left Peru and came to England,’ Edward pointed out. ‘Perhaps he knew something you don’t.’
‘More fool he. Anyway, that’s where I’m going. I’ve decided. And Gran thinks it’s a great idea.’
‘Gran would,’ I replied, silently cursing my mother. For while she would no doubt be sleeping soundly in her bed while her granddaughter cavorted around the world, I was pretty sure I would lie awake worrying for weeks to come.
And so it was that one freezing November afternoon, Edward and I found ourselves waving our daughter off at Heathrow airport.
‘She’ll be all right,’ Edward said, squeezing my hand, as we watched Tavvy making her way through into the departure lounge. ‘She’s nearly twenty, and she knows how to look after herself.’
‘Yes,’ I whispered, fighting back the tears, trying not to think of all the potential hazards lying in wait for the lone female traveller.
Tavvy looked back a last time; a slight figure weighed down by an enormous backpack and a cloud of bright hair under a battered straw hat. She grinned broadly and blew us a final kiss before disappearing from sight.
It seemed like the last curtain in the wonderful drama which had been Tavvy’s childhood.
Forty-five
October 2001
Another evening, another dusk, perhaps another night of waiting. Now, Tavvy and I sit on either side of Mum, holding her hands. There have been other visitors — Lucas, Greta, Edward with a flask of soup and some sandwiches — but Tavvy and I will stay here together until the end. It’s what Mum would have wanted.
My mother sleeps. She hasn’t stirred since Tavvy’s arrival, but the faint smile still lingers on her face, and I believe she is at peace.
I tell Tavvy about her funeral plans.
‘Black horses, Tavvy. Imagine. Where on earth are we going to find a black horse?’
‘I know someone who’s got a brown pony,’ Tavvy says, after a moment. ‘Would that do?’
‘A brown pony ... Oh, why not? I’m sure a brown pony will do nicely. Can it pull a cart?’
‘I expect so,’ says Tavvy, who knows nothing at all about horses. ‘If not, we’ll teach it.’
I think of all the things that will need to be done when Mum dies, and mentally add to the list teaching the brown pony to pull a cart.
‘And flowers. She wants lots of flowers.’
‘I should think so,’ says Tavvy. ‘A funeral wouldn’t be a funeral without lots of flowers. Not wreaths, though. They’re too — too —’
‘Funereal?’
‘That’s probably it.’ We both laugh.
‘I’ll miss her so much, ‘ Tavvy says, after a moment, and begins to weep again. ‘The world won’t be the same without Gran.’
‘I know.’
We sit on, chatting quietly, laughing, crying. Mum’s breathing becomes increasingly shallow and erratic, and once again I find myself clinging tightly on to her hand, as though a part of me is still trying to hang on to her. When I look across the bed, I see that Tavvy is doing the same.
‘We must let her go, Tavvy,’ I say, reaching across to take Tavvy’s hand in mine. ‘We have to let her go.’
‘Do you think she’ll speak again?’ Tavvy asks, through more tears.
I shake my head.
‘There’s no need. I think she’s said all she wants to say. Now you’re back, there’s nothing to keep her.’
More time passes, a doctor looks in, a nurse asks if we’re all right and brings us hot chocolate. Eventually, Tavvy and I both doze off, curled uncomfortably in our hospital chairs.
I must have fallen into a deeper sleep than I intended, for when I awake I am quite stiff and, for a brief moment, disorientated. But I know even before I open my eyes that Mum has gone. There is a stillness in the room; a silence which wasn’t there before. The hand I hold in mine is still faint
ly warm, but my mother is no longer here. It’s like coming into a room just after someone has left it: the embers are still glowing in the hearth; the seat of a chair still retains the warmth of the person who was occupying it; but there is no longer anyone there.
Tavvy wakes with a little cry.
‘Oh, no!’ She clutches at Mum’s hand. ‘She’s gone! She didn’t even say goodbye!’
‘She did. When you arrived. That was her goodbye.’
Tavvy’s head is bent and I know she’s crying, but soundlessly this time. My own tears seem locked in my throat as though waiting for permission before they can be released. Somewhere, a church clock strikes, and an ambulance makes its noisy response to someone else’s emergency; perhaps someone else’s tragedy.
Eventually, Tavvy lets go of Mum’s hand and stands up, gazing down at the small, still figure in the bed.
‘So that’s — it.’ She sounds surprised.
‘Yes. That’s it.’
‘So quiet for such a dramatic thing. The end of someone’s life. You expect — oh, I don’t know. A fanfare or something. Something more — important.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘She didn’t suffer, did she?’
‘No. Not too much.’
‘That’s good. And you, Mum. You’ve lost your mother.’ She comes and puts her arms around me. ‘Poor old mum.’
‘I’ll be all right.’ I return her hug.
‘You’ve still got me. And Dad.’
‘Of course I have.’
Tavvy moves away, and stands silhouetted against the light coming in from the corridor. Although she is so thin, her stomach has a gentle and unmistakable curve, and she places her hands over it protectively, as though challenging death to seek out another victim. Catching my gaze, she gives a small helpless shrug.
‘I was going to tell you, Mum.’ Her voice has the same tone as it did when she was a little girl and was afraid I might be cross with her. ‘I did love him, you know. He said he said he’d stay with me. He promised to look after me.’
‘But he didn’t.’
‘No. He didn’t.’
The words hang between us, as though waiting for some kind of resolution.
I take Tavvy in my arms again and hold her close.
‘Poor Tavvy.’
‘Oh, Mum. I’ve wanted you — needed you — so much.’ She sobs into my shoulder. ‘I’ve been so stupid. How could I have been so stupid?’
‘It happens. These things happen. But we’ll manage,’ I say, stroking her hair. ‘It’ll be all right.’
‘Will it?’ She lifts a tear-stained face to mine.
‘Of course it will.’
‘And — Dad?’
‘You leave Dad to me.’
We stand there for a long time, holding each other, and I draw comfort from the warmth of my daughter’s skin, her hair against my cheek, the small catch of her breath.
Outside the window, another dawn is lightening the sky; a new day is beginning; the last leaf detaches itself from a branch of the maple tree, and begins to spiral slowly towards the ground.
BOOK TWO: WOMEN BEHAVING BADLY
Prologue
The Catholic Church has always had a problem with sex, and never more so than with that of the extramarital variety.
A certain Catholic bishop reflected gloomily upon the problem of adultery in his diocese (it was a large diocese, and there was a lot of adultery), and after much thought and some heartfelt prayers, he hit upon an idea: a self-help group for adulterers! Why had no-one thought of it before? There were self-help groups for drug-users and alcoholics, so why not for those who were slaves to their illicit passions? It was a wonderful idea, and he knew just the person to lead the group.
Father Cuthbert O’Donnell was not pleased. He was a shy man, he had never led a group before, and he had enough problems on his own doorstep without extending his boundaries any further. When the Bishop approached him, he prevaricated and he reasoned — he even cited his asthma attacks — but to no avail. The Bishop was insistent. The meetings must obviously take place somewhere away from the big towns where people might know one another, and Father Cuthbert’s little village was just the place. Money would be provided for tea and biscuits, and the Bishop himself would put in motion the business of recruiting people to attend, making as sure as was possible that the individuals concerned did not already know one another.
“And how will you do that, Your Grace?” Father Cuthbert enquired boldly.
The Bishop tapped his nose and smiled. “I have my ways.”
“But —”
“No buts, Father. I’m sure you will carry out this duty as conscientiously as you do all your others.”
“Adulterers Anonymous?” hazarded Father Cuthbert, accepting defeat.
“No, no, Father. Theology. We will call the meetings Basic Theology for Beginners, to preserve confidentiality, and avoid embarrassment.”
And that was the start. To Father Cuthbert’s surprise, the group went well. The members seemed to enjoy the opportunity to discuss their problems with their fellows, and gradually, some of them came to see the error of their ways.
Within six months, of the ten original group members, just three were left. Five had broken off their irregular liaisons, one had resorted to divorce, and one, tragically, had killed himself, thus (as Father Cuthbert sadly informed his fellows) further compounding his tally of mortal sins.
Notwithstanding the fine example of some of their fellows and unmoved by the suicide, the three remaining members of the group — all women — seemed unwilling to mend their ways, and after consulting with the Bishop, Father Cuthbert informed them that it was with much regret that he had decided that he could no longer extend to them his hospitality (not to mention the coffee and biscuits) at the presbytery. If they wished to continue their meetings, they would have to make alternative arrangements.
Alice, Mavis, and Gabs decided to do just that. This is their story.
Part One
Alice
Alice hurtled round Tesco’s, throwing things into her trolley, with one eye on the time. In half an hour, she was due to pick up Finn from football practice, and then she had to get him home and feed him before she left for her meeting. Baked beans, biscuits, cereal — what kind was Finn into these days? It seemed to change from week to week. Something crisp and chocolatey would probably do. Washing powder, socks — would Finn mind Tesco socks? Probably not. After all, socks were socks, weren’t they? Alice threw in a couple of packs. She would take off the labels, and Finn probably wouldn’t even notice.
At the checkout, Alice realised she’d forgotten the milk. Well, they’d have to make do with what they had. If necessary, they could always borrow some from next door. The woman who lived there kept cats and always had plenty. Alice disliked the cats, who came over the fence and killed birds and dug up her one flower bed. Their owner was sympathetic but said there was nothing much she could do. Cats would be cats. Alice had heard once that in the eyes of the law, cats weren’t possessions; they were “free spirits.” In other words, they could more or less do what they liked. The title somehow exonerated the owners from any responsibility.
If only the same could be said of teenagers.
Finn was fifteen, the age of the ‘great ennui’ as a friend of Alice’s (and mother of three sons) put it. Everything — school, holidays, television, some of his friends and most of hers, even life itself — everything was “bore-ring.” Wherever he was, his gangling frame seemed to fill the house, his boat-size trainers tripped her up in the hallway, his music blared from the open door of his bedroom. He languished across armchairs or along the sofa, his bare (and none too clean) feet dangling, his jaws slowly masticating gum, his eyes either closed or glazed over. He slept for twelve hours at a time and ate enough to feed a small third-world village. The smell of toast would waft up the stairs long after Alice had gone to bed (how was it that a smell could wake one up?), and they were always running out
of food. As for his room… well, to use an awful cliché, don’t even go there (Alice didn’t).
But he made her laugh. No-one had ever made Alice laugh the way Finn did. He was an excellent mimic, told wickedly funny stories, and his bagpipes act (an upside down kitchen stool and a very rude “Scottish” song) could make her cry with laughter. His quick ripostes, the little notes he left her (‘out of bread, peanut butter, and chill pills for Mum’), his bear hugs (he was very affectionate), and on good days, his companionship, all made it worthwhile.
Alice would look at this huge, towering boy-man and remember with horror how she very nearly got rid of him.
Finn was an accident. Alice had known his father just three hours (or was it four?). They’d met at a party and ended up in the summerhouse on a heap of rather smelly cushions with a bottle of cheap wine (Alice had been just sober enough to know that the wine was disgusting, but too drunk to care).
Alice was not the kind of person to have one-night-stands. She was organised, disciplined, focused and ambitious. At thirty-one, she had been fully occupied in developing her career as a journalist and wanted nothing to get in her way. A husband and children — especially children — had never been part of the plan. Alice liked men and enjoyed sex, but her relationships, like her work life, were organised, with secure boundaries. She never went out on a date if she had a deadline to achieve, she didn’t sleep with a man until she knew him pretty well, and she never went out with anyone from work. But it had been a difficult week, she’d been tired, the party had offered a welcome diversion (Alice wasn’t usually a party-goer), and Finn had been the result.
It had taken Alice a month to decide what she was going to do. She wrote down all the reasons why she should and shouldn’t continue with her pregnancy; she listed all the pros and cons; she consulted her closest friend. In the end, she decided to go ahead and have the baby. As a friend said, people often regretted getting rid of babies, but rarely regretted keeping them. She might even grow to like her child. Stranger things had happened.
The Frances Garrood Collection Page 27