by Stibbe, Nina
We were silent for a moment. I thought it a bit unfair to describe Mr Lomax as slightly retarded and then my sister expanded on the subject. ‘We don’t want too many unmarried candidates, they might not have the necessary.’
‘The necessary what?’ I asked.
‘Experience etc. If they haven’t experienced the hell and high water of family life, they might go to the bad with the shock of it,’ she said.
‘But what about the wives?’ I asked.
‘You’ve heard the saying “All’s fair in love and war”, haven’t you?’
I had, and though it was a lot to take in, I had to agree (all was fair in love and war). The Man List was established and it looked like this:
Mr Lomax – Liberal candidate
Dr Kaufmann – doctor
Mr Dodd – teacher (avoid if poss)
The coalman – too far away?
Mr Longlady – accountant and bee lover
Mr Oliphant – posh farmer
Our father
3
As luck would have it, just a day or two after we’d compiled the Man List and made our solemn pledge, our mother made an appointment to see Dr Kaufmann, the village doctor, who was already on the list. My sister and I thought we might as well make a start with him and it gave us both butterflies thinking about it. We knew doctors were a sought-after group, man-wise.
The plan was: after our mother’s consultation with Dr Kaufmann, my sister would follow up with a short letter to him on the peach-blossom writing paper (which was quite sensual in appearance with pink peaches in the top right-hand corner), inviting him for an evening drink. As it turned out, I accompanied our mother to the doctor so she could show him my clickety shoulder, and it was a good job too because I knew straight away that Dr Kaufmann wouldn’t dream of having sex with our mother. He wasn’t the type to exploit the abandoned or fragile – however pretty. I could tell this by the way he spoke to us and the way he regarded us, a mix of seriousness, compassion and concern – I’d never seen that type of look before, or many times since. In fact, it was my opinion that an advance on Dr Kaufmann might be counter-productive (i.e., he might see it as a sign of her unsuitability, thereby bringing us closer to being made wards of court). Actually Dr Kaufmann seemed to have the same set of practical worries as my sister and he gave her a pep talk right there and then, in front of me.
‘Mrs Vogel,’ he said, ‘you are the captain of your ship – you have people depending on you. People whom you must care for and be seen to care for.’ He nodded at her encouragingly and went on. ‘You must look after the children and you must pay your rates on time. It is imperative that you do these important things and you must try to –’
Our mother butted in there and said, ‘Yes, all right, I’ll try,’ before Dr Kaufmann had even finished listing the things that were imperative. He paused, then continued doggedly with his list.
‘You must prepare the children for school and you must keep your doors and gates closed. This is a village after all, Mrs Vogel, not a town, people notice things. You must eat well yourself, too – you’re clearly underweight,’ he said. ‘It is imperative.’
He may as well have said, ‘Or the children will be made wards of court, Mrs Vogel.’
He may as well have, because that’s how I interpreted it.
Certain things were imperative. And hearing it all from the doctor made me commit 100 per cent to the quest for our mother’s happiness. Because to be honest, even though I’d already pledged on it with my sister, I hadn’t fully accepted the imperativeness until I’d heard Dr Kaufmann say so. That’s the thing about doctors, I find. Everyone believes them. Maybe that’s why they’re sought-after.
So when I got home, I told my sister all and we thanked God for my clickety shoulder and crossed Dr Kaufmann off the list. We were not put off finding a man, however, and decided to strike while the iron was hot and that instead of the doctor we’d make a start on Mr Lomax, the Liberal candidate and handyman. He was top of the list after all and a good bet as he’d already been to the house.
My sister wrote to him straight away. She didn’t seem able to call up our mother’s turns of phrase as well as I could, which was frustrating, and eventually I had to intervene to make it authentic. It was my sister’s writing paper and envelope, though, and her idea in the first place, so I suppose you could say it was a joint effort.
Dear Mr Lomax,
How silly of me! I realize now I didn’t get around to thanking you properly for all the little odd jobs you so kindly did when we moved into the house. I feel it’s imperative to thank you properly. So would you like to come and have a drink some time – hot water or Bell’s or whatever you fancy? Perhaps we could discuss more jobs. Please telephone to make a date.
Yours truly,
Elizabeth Vogel x
We delivered the letter by hand and later told our mother that Mr Lomax had rung up on the phone asking how everything was going – house-wise.
Our mother was irritated by this and said, ‘House-wise?’
And my clever sister, quick as anything, said, ‘For goodness’ sake, Mum, he likes you and wants to see you.’
And our mother shrugged and said, ‘Christ.’ But seemed pleased.
Then a couple of days went by and we hadn’t heard from Mr Lomax and thought that was probably that, so my sister asked our mother if she might ring him.
‘Why on earth would I ring Mr Fucking Lomax?’ she asked.
And my sister said, ‘Because he wants to see you.’
Then, only a moment later and to our amazement, the phone rang and we heard our mother say, ‘Well, then, I suppose Friday would be lovely.’ Albeit rather sternly.
On Friday at six p.m. Mr Lomax parked his van at a funny angle on the grass verge and clambered out in his work overall and chunky light-tan boots. He said he’d parked on the verge like that so as not to block any exits. And I think I realized then that he wasn’t going to be our mother’s cup of tea. She couldn’t care less about exits being blocked and would rather people had other things on their mind.
Our mother asked Mr Lomax what he’d like to drink and he asked for a mug of hot water and our mother, who already had a glass of Bell’s on the go, said, ‘Hot water – really? What kind of a drink is that?’ She made a face and ran the hot tap. Mr Lomax asked if he might have it boiled from the kettle and our mother looked exasperated.
They sat at the kitchen table and Mr Lomax talked a lot about the difference in drinking quality between water from the water tank, water from the mains supply and water from a heated tank or boiler. He talked about the house and its condition. He was concerned about the possibility of pests, with us having chickens and the closeness of the bakery over the wall. He felt pests were ‘almost inevitable’. He was concerned about the positioning of the boiler and the lack of space for ventilation and the looseness of the stair banister.
Our mother offered him another drink. He had more hot water and our mother questioned him rather rudely about the drink choice. Mr Lomax explained that he’d had a recurring fissure and it was necessary to stay hydrated to avoid a relapse. Our mother probably realized then she had nothing to lose and we ended up acting a bit of her play for him. We often acted bits of the play(s) but not usually with an audience, and that made it quite nerve-racking, albeit exciting.
It was a scene where the separating couple fights over custody of a young Labrador.
Roderick (played by our mother): I’m taking Debbie.
Adele (me): No, no, you’re not. Debbie is devoted to me.
Roderick: You’ve got the children.
Adele: I want Debbie (she holds Debbie in her arms) – you’ve got the toaster.
Roderick: You’re hurting Debbie (pulls Adele’s arm).
(The couple tussles.)
Adele: You’re hurting me!
Roderick: Give him over.
Adele: No.
(Roderick submits and leaves the stage. Adele cuddles Debbie.)
&
nbsp; Our fight over Debbie had been vigorous and a bit exhausting, and after acting the scene we had a short break so our mother could have a cigarette. During the break I pointed out what I thought was an error in the script (Roderick refers to Debbie as ‘him’ when Debbie is actually a bitch and therefore the line should have read ‘give her over’) but our mother claimed she’d written the error in – to reinforce the point that Roderick was not on intimate terms with the Labrador, he was just being an awkward bastard. Our mother stubbed out her cigarette. It was only half smoked and it snapped at the filter and the white part carried on smoking thickly. I knew she was ready to continue so I announced the next act, ‘My Husband Has Gone’, but before we could begin it Mr Lomax said he had to go.
As he struggled into his anorak he said he knew of a man, an ex-plumber, who needed work due to losing his Confederation of Registered Gas Installers certificate and might be more suitable for what she had in mind, and that he’d drop his card through the letter box. And then he strode away to his van on the verge.
‘Strange chap,’ said our mother, and I had to agree.
‘Retarded,’ said my sister, who loved saying that word.
‘Crab,’ said Jack, who’d called him that before and rarely changed his mind.
There’s not going to be a better moment to explain the play(s). At the time of her separation from our father, our mother had experienced only one success in her whole life. Just one, and it had been the writing of a play entitled The Planet when she was sixteen years old. She’d thought it up and written it by herself and then entered it into a competition. She’d won first prize and the play had been put on at a theatre in one of the universities and acted out for a whole week by drama students (that was the prize).
Our mother hadn’t enjoyed writing the play that much and, in spite of the exciting title, the subject had been mundane and gloomy (her words) but, by coincidence, mundane and gloomy plays were all the rage then and the judges had been overwhelmed by her maturity and insight. And though a gloomy mood pervaded the play, she enjoyed all the attention of people saying she was a genius at writing plays and brilliant at dialogue and structure etc.
Therefore, as time marched on and her life was just a long grey smear with no relief – only staring at flames, giving birth and drinking whisky – she would often try to re-create that time of recognition and acknowledgement. After our father left, play-writing became a daily thing. And it was mostly just the long, ongoing play of her life with snippets expanded, exaggerated, explained or remedied. The Play. Occasionally she might write a classical version or a poem, but it was essentially the same story. Hers.
Sometimes writing the play warded off misery and she’d bounce around with staging ideas and on those days we hated the play because it was those days she’d beg us to enact it when we’d rather be watching Dick Emery. Other times, she didn’t have the energy to write (usually because she’d not started early enough and was too drunk) and on these days we longed for the play.
Our mother was the main character and was always played by me because I could really play her and had her exact voice and mannerisms. Our mother always took the role of our father or the significant man because she was taller than us and this proved important. This meant she and I often fought or tussled and shouted at each other (in role). My sister, who was less dramatic than our mother or me, always played the other characters such as teachers, neighbours and so forth. My little brother Jack had only occasional, tiny (albeit important) parts such as an ambulance man or a judge and, once, a pharmacist.
Although I had mixed feelings about performing the play, I had to admit it was well written. Clever, sometimes funny and always worldly – as good as anything you saw on telly or on stage except perhaps for Terence Rattigan, who didn’t do as much explaining and yet revealed so much. Our mother did rather spell things out and her characters occasionally broke the fourth wall, which I considered cheating. The play didn’t bother me as much as it bothered my sister. Except that what bothered her bothered the rest of us in the end.
4
In the post-mortem following Mr Lomax’s visit my sister and I were self-critical and rightly so. Our aim had been that they should have a drink and then have sex in her sitting room and do it enough times until they got engaged and then married. But we’d let him slip through our fingers with bad planning and shoddy execution.
And though we agreed Mr Lomax wasn’t the ideal, we evaluated our efforts as if he had been, even though he most definitely hadn’t. It had been a mistake, we agreed, not to have offered any snacks or put on any music, and this might have led to Mr Lomax feeling uncomfortable and probably peckish and if there was one thing I knew for definite about men it was that they cannot perform sex if hungry. We also agreed that doing the play had only made things worse – especially that particular scene with Debbie and her being a bugger to lift. It wasn’t surprising that it freaked him out.
We didn’t let it put us off, though. My sister consulted the Man List, crossed off Mr Lomax and added Bernard, our father’s chauffeur. I objected, saying he and our mother hated each other’s guts, but my sister mentioned the very fine line between love and hate (i.e., that you’re more likely to want to have sex with and marry someone you hate than someone you don’t care one way or the other about). Which, when I thought about it for long enough, made sense. Worryingly.
With that in mind we added a semi-retired mechanic called Denis who offered a taxi service in his Ford Zodiac – whom our mother also hated.
I wondered if it might be simpler just to instigate a reunion with our father. My sister disagreed. In her opinion they were still chalk and cheese. Also, he’d begun to fade as a notion. It was the way with divorced fathers in those days. They tended to keep out of the picture from sheer politeness and convenience. Ditto non-divorced fathers, except with divorced ones you actually never saw them except for the odd Sunday lunch or to trudge across a field with a picnic. They were absent from your private life and this was hard on leftover boys like Little Jack because there was no man at home to show them how to make the noise of an explosion or tell them that West Germany were better than Ecuador. Not that our particular father would have been able to do either of those, but it was the principle of the thing. And, worse than that, they were absent from your public life, never attending parents’ evenings, sports days, school plays, and never seeing nature displays or topic books. They never saw you perform, excel, try, succeed, fail, and this was hard on my sister because it meant he never got to hear about her extraordinary cleverness in school and therefore couldn’t possibly admire her as much as he should. She did occasionally tell him about it but it always sounded boastful and far-fetched and it sickened all concerned, so she stopped.
I was the least bothered by our father’s private and public absence. Probably because I was certain he’d have been a fine father if it hadn’t been for the divorce. I somehow didn’t need his reminders to save lolly sticks in case of a sudden urge to make a model of Leicester prison as he had done as a boy (albeit with matchsticks). I had a good memory and had heard plenty of his advice on life. Neither did I need his seal of approval. I just happened to think that, compared with everyone else on offer, he was the nicest and the best and, more importantly, the wellest known. He remained on the Man List, theoretically, but (before you get any ideas) there was never a romantic remarriage, there wasn’t even a try-out; we decided it was all just too tangled and unlikely, not to mention the travel.
For the time being though, we decided we shouldn’t invite any of the other men on the list to meet our mother until we’d done more research and honed a routine. In the meantime we devised some in-between projects to cheer her up and hopefully prevent the writing of the play. My sister’s ideas were quick fixes – getting another foal or going to the theatre fifteen miles away or building a feed-shed. She even toyed with the idea of pretending something really bad had happened and then saying it was a false alarm so our mother could experience
the sense of intense relief that makes a person count their blessings. But I thought it risky.
I preferred longer projects with multiple outcomes – planting a line of poplar trees like they have in France as a barrier against strong, hot winds, for instance, or trying to befriend someone like Mrs C. Beard across the road, who seemed like the only nice person in the village and who told us off for littering but only if we were littering, and if we weren’t she’d smile and sometimes even wave for some reason.
My best idea, though, bearing in mind our mother’s underweightness, was a cookery spree, seeing as we were sick of toast and parsley sauce anyway. My sister considered all my ideas either too ambitious or ‘unlikely to bear fruit’, meaning they might never make it out of the idea stage. Or, in the case of the cookery spree, too unrealistic, seeing as our mother hated food almost as much as she hated the chauffeur (her worst word in the English language being ‘portion’).
And my sister, being far more practical than me, came up with a good and simple idea, which she introduced so naturally I hardly noticed it when it popped out. We were in our mother’s bedroom. She had a heavy four-poster bed with ugly drapes and a few pieces of awkward walnut heartwood furniture whose open-grained appearance I hated and which I would have painted a pretty greeny-blue. We liked being in her bedroom nevertheless. It smelled nice and had a feeling of things before the split – the same linens, the same little bottles of scent etc. She even had her Ophelia in oils hanging above a cold hearth. Other old paintings had been dumped in the loft and replaced by abstract shapes in orange and yellow and quaint old signs from market stalls advertising motor oils and digestive powders.