“Is that what you want Rosemary? James?”
Rose nodded silently. James carefully and clearly said ‘Yes your worship’. Anya was so proud of them all.
“Mrs Kathleen Philips, Mrs Cross, you have put your feelings very forcefully to this court and also in your submissions which I will read again very carefully. Mrs Anya Philips, I will let you know my decision as soon as possible. I do have some understanding of the strain which you are under. You will recognize that the court’s decision may take weeks, rather than days, as we have to be absolutely certain, for the children’s sake, that the right decision is being made.”
Four weeks later Anya and the children were having the full English breakfast that had become the habit on a Saturday morning. Geoffrey brought in the post and handed it to Anya, the letter from the court on the top.
“You open it Geoffrey. I don’t think I can.”
“Dear Mrs Philips, In the matter of” Geoffrey skimmed silently over the remainder of the letter before shouting “We won!”.
Anya took the the short letter from him, read it and burst into tears.
“It’s not that bad is it?” Geoffrey asked innocently.
“Of course not! It’s absolutely bloody brilliant!”
When they had all hugged each other and once Anya and Rose’s tears had been wiped away, when James and Geoffrey had cleared away the remnants of their breakfast things they sat around the table with fresh mugs of coffee.
“Well, what do we call you now?” James asked quietly.
For the past months Anya knew they had avoided calling her anything. She hadn’t made an issue of it but she wasn’t comfortable with them calling her ‘Anya’ and ‘Mum’ was out of the question.
“What is that name Uncle John calls you?” James asked sensibly.
“Huggy. It comes from Hug, H U G. Highly Unsuitable Girl. When they first met me they thought I was highly unsuitable for Kent society and the name stuck.”
“Were you unsuitable?” Rose asked quietly. Anya wondered what impression she had of her step-adopted-mother after her character and history had been the subject of so much discussion through the summer.
“Probably. But all things are relative, unsuitable to your grand-mother was highly suitable to other people.”
“Dad?”
“I hope so.”
“We’ll call you Hug or Huggy then.” Rose said firmly. “It sounds almost like Mum or Mummy but it’s a lot nicer.”
Thoughtfully, Anya folded the letter and put it carefully back in the envelope. Eventually she looked up to see three anxious faces staring at her. She smiled.
“So, children of mine, whose turn is it to do the washing up?”
Chapter 16: Explanations
Barbados, January 2002
Tuesday January 1st 2002
Another Year. Surely a time for looking forward but all I can do is think about the past. I’m overwhelmed with dread about the future. What am I going to do now the children have to all intents and purposes left home? What am I going to do for money? Why did I sleep with Tim last night?
I’ve sometimes wondered why we’ve seen so little of each other since Geoff died, after all we have some of the same friends, mix in similar circles, were once almost related. Even though we’ve spoken occasionally we’ve never had what you could call a conversation. Not once. Whether this has been by design or accident I have no idea, and if by design I have no idea either whether that was him or me.
2000 was a lovely year. James’s 18th in March, then Geoffrey’s 21st, James’s A levels and the angst of getting him into the university of his choice (success!), Geoffrey’s finals and graduation (that brought back so many memories we all had such a great time!), and Rose’s 20th barbecue (we had to have a big party for her because the boys had each had one) then the weekend in Cornwall the children organised for my 50th then seeing G off for his year travelling, then J to Durham.
The years when they needed me have been such good years. They rebelled, of course they did, why wouldn’t they? They were young. Life had dealt them rotten cards in some ways and it took me a while to persuade them that they had been dealt some pretty good ones as well. They have, more than any other family I have seen, each other. When I think how different the three of them are as people I wonder how they are so close. They’ve fallen out and argued, and not spoken for weeks, but they’ve always gone back to each other. Overall, with the enormous exception of losing their parents, life hasn’t been too hard on them. All three, I hope, are happy self-confident (but not arrogant), well-balanced and caring people.
It would have been much more difficult if we hadn’t had money. I hope they’ve never taken that for granted. They have their trust funds to see them into adulthood and onto the property ladder when they want to settle down. I hope I’ve taught them to understand how lucky they are. But for the past three years Geoff’s investments haven’t brought in anything like enough. The house needed a new roof, the children needed cars, places to live at uni, we needed holidays. Interest rates went down and inflation went up so one by one my properties have had to go. I don’t resent it in the least. What I do resent is the bad investment advice I was given and last year’s crash. It looks as if all I’ve got left now is this house (after the children all pass 21) and Fishermen Rock.
Is that it? Have I anything to look forward to or am I on the run in to the end of my life? I’m 52 this year, that’s older than Mum when she died and about the same age as Dot Hill. The children won’t need me anymore, well maybe every now and again, but they won’t fill my days as they have done. I’ll have letters to write, perhaps a wedding to organise, maybe even grand-children to babysit in time. Is this how every woman feels, when her children leave home? I can’t believe the years are going by so quickly.
It was Christmas that made me take stock. Rose and James came home but they really couldn’t wait to get back to their friends. It would be the last one as a family, and even this one was without Geoffrey, though he did phone briefly from somewhere in India (I think) it was wonderful to hear from him but the line was really bad. Will there ever be another Christmas with all four of us together? I have just the smallest inkling of why Kathleen held on to her family Christmases. New Year’s Eve loomed and although David and Linda invited me to their place I didn’t really want to go. I wanted to do something to make me believe the best of my life wasn’t all behind me. I told myself I’ve got to be positive so I found a restaurant that could squeeze one more person in at short notice. The only one was miles away but I decided it wasn’t too great an extravagance, just this once, to get a cab each way. I spent a couple of days looking forward to dressing up, though my days of wearing heels higher than sensible and dresses tighter than necessary are long gone I felt I could still be pretty presentable for a woman my age. I looked forward to being someone I hadn’t been for a long time, myself, instead of Geoffrey, Rose and Jim’s mum. I needed to remind myself that Anya Philips still existed.
The restaurant was full and my table, being for one, was tucked out of the way but the staff were very nice, treating me with no less respect than others just because I was a woman alone on a night of large parties.
Excellent, well cooked food washed down with a half bottle of wine and one of champagne made me mellow. The New Year was being counted down and several tables got together to sing Auld Lang Syne rather self-consciously as it really wasn’t that sort of restaurant. My taxi was due at 12.30 so I sat back with a coffee and liqueur enjoying some peace of mind because I’d made a decision over an excellent Beef Wellington. I’d spend at least the next three months in Barbados. Miriam has always been so cheerful and welcoming when we’ve been out for holidays and I could do with some TLC. Also, now it’s my only source of income, I can get more involved even than I was when I first bought the place.
I was drinking my second cup of coffee when I noticed him sitting with two couples I didn’t recognise. The table wasn’t completely in view and I thought he
must have changed seats, Surely I would have noticed if he’d been there for the past three hours. I looked away. I really, really, didn’t want to catch his eye. But, I told myself, even if I did surely there was no problem in smiling, waving and mouthing ‘Happy New Year’ across the room. Could there? It was funny, as soon I didn’t want to look in a particular direction in the room that was where my eyes wandered to. Why did the man upset my equilibrium so? After all this time.
I found myself staring at the table cloth. It must be nearly time for the taxi and I’d have to pass his table to get to the door. A simple ‘Hello, Happy New Year’ ‘Sorry I’ve got to go. My taxi’s here’ and I would be gone. All would be well again.
Perhaps he would get up, go to the cloakroom, and I could pass unnoticed.
Why was it such an issue? Why was he such a problem? It must have been the atmosphere. Or the wine. Or the fact it was a New Year. Or my mood. Or something about wanting to recapture what was lost long ago.
As I walked towards the door I knew there was no way he wouldn’t see me. He seemed surprised but also pleased and wished me a happy 2002 adding something about it not being possible that it could be worse than the year just gone. Then he asked me to join him. I couldn’t, I said, a taxi is waiting. I’ll get you home he had said. Join us. He sent a waiter outside to my taxi with a note to compensate the loss of fare. I thought that high-handed of him but then it was perfectly in character. The others at his table seemed genuine in the invitation so I’d joined them. They were nice people and I enjoyed the extension to my evening. I didn’t ask how they knew him or why they were all spending New Year together and they didn’t say. They left together, the four strangers, leaving us alone at the table.
I know I shouldn’t have been taken in by him after all this time but somehow he seemed different, more interested in someone, something, anything, other than himself. Was he as embarrassed as I was? Was he nervous? I was. I have no idea why. Almost like a teenager on a first date. Don’t be ridiculous I told myself as we finished our coffee and liqueurs, I have known this man for 30 years.
He took me home in his chauffeur-driven car. He had to have lost his licence somehow, drink driving probably, I was sure he hadn’t had a chauffeur in 2000 when we had seen quite a lot of him. The driver talked without stopping as he drove, perhaps to keep himself awake. We sat on the back seat, luckily separated by the leather armrest. I spent the journey wondering what to do when we reached the house. Should I ask him in for coffee? Would he read more into that than there was? I would have loved to have had answers to some questions. Why had he abandoned me to Kathleen? Why hadn’t he helped me adopt the children? Why had he been so distant every time we met? These things had bothered me because it had once seemed we had so much in common. It was as if we had never been attracted to each other. Perhaps it had only ever been sex.
When we arrived home he got out of the car with me. It was all so natural, it all seemed so uncomplicated. He gave me no answers because I didn’t ask him any questions. We just went upstairs together. I’m out of practice I said, he said he’d be gentle and it was like riding a bike. I laughed remembering a young American 9 years before. A lifetime. So Tim and I made love (probably had sex is putting it more accurately). It was more comfortable than the Golf Club Captain’s office floor, it was less urgent than those days in the hotel in Covent Garden, it was definitely more sophisticated than those times under the trees at his engagement party or on his stag night or on his wedding day.
Maybe we had both been trying to regain something of our youth and perhaps it meant nothing to either of us. Perhaps he had thought it was expected of him, perhaps I thought it was a good idea at the time, but I wish we hadn’t.
Shit. I didn’t even enjoy it.
As Anya flew into Bridgetown she was still trying to shake off the feeling of depression that had enveloped her since she had woken up three days earlier to see Tim asleep next to her, lying on his back snoring gently. It had been a most unattractive sight.
She had slipped out of the bed and taken some clothes into the bathroom to dress. She did not want him to see her naked, nor did she want the intimacy of having him watch her dress. She went downstairs and checked the answer machine. There were messages from all three children wishing her a Happy New Year. She went into the kitchen, leant against the kitchen table and sobbed. She waited for Tim to come downstairs dreading having to face him, wondering what she could possibly say. She was relieved when a few minutes later she heard the gentle opening and closing of the front door. He hadn’t wanted to see her either.
The first day of 2002 had been a dreadful day, she hoped it wasn’t an indication of what the year was to bring. She had tried to watch television but there had been nothing that could distract her. She had thought of phoning Miriam to discuss her plans but decided against it. It was New Year’s Day, it was one of the busiest days of the year at Fishermen Rock with the traditional buffet lunch. She couldn’t phone Geoffrey, she had no idea where he was, or Rose or James, not on January 1st when they would be recovering from their New Year celebrations so she sat at her computer, reading back over the past six years of her diary. That only depressed her more as they recounted the busy life of the house filled with voices and noise, with laughter and tears and arguments and loud music and love.
She tried to focus her thoughts as she wrote the diary of the previous day. Perhaps she was over-reacting, after all, all she had done was have non-committed sex with an old friend. It wasn’t as if she had picked up a stranger. She would just try to forget the whole thing, if she forgot it then it would be as if it never had happened.
She looked out of the aircraft at the Caribbean Sea and the west coast of Barbados thinking, as she always did, how built up the island appeared to be from the air. Then the sea was directly beneath her as the aircraft banked sharply to the left in its rapid descent. She remembered the times when she had flown Concorde and how short and luxurious the flight had been then, but since the children had come into her life that had not really been an option. When she had made this flight with Geoffrey, Rose and James their excitement had been infectious and the time had passed quickly but this flight seemed to have gone on forever. She missed the children with a lurch in her chest that hurt. What were they all doing now? She had phoned Rose and James before she’d left home that morning and they’d just told her to enjoy herself but she hadn’t heard from Geoffrey since his message at New Year. He hadn’t said where he was or what he was doing, he just said he was OK and would be back in the UK in the Spring. She offered up a prayer to a God she didn’t believe in that he was safe and happy.
As she walked down the aircraft steps into the heat of the late Barbados afternoon she tried to relax. She felt at home here, soon she would be sitting on the veranda sipping the welcoming rum punch and being seduced by the warmth of the breeze and of Miriam’s enthusiasm.
She clambered inelegantly into the driving seat of the moke she had asked to be reserved for her. She had always liked the feeling of freedom that driving the open-topped and open sided car gave her, she hoped she would never be too old to drive one around the island. She slipped it into gear and drove away from the airport, turning right whilst the vast majority of the other traffic turned left towards the city and the crowded west coast.
It took her a moment to realise that, apart from Miriam’s Toyota, there was only one other car in the hotel’s car park. This was early January, the height of the season, the car park should be packed. She tried to think of a good reason for the absence of cars. Perhaps it was just that all the guests were out and about, but it was just coming up to sundown. The terrace should be crowded with groups of people enjoying rum punch and cocktails, yet she could see only one couple.
She wondered also why Miriam hadn’t rushed out to greet her. She should have got the email the airline had sent from Heathrow and would have been expecting her. All the visits she had made with the children had begun with Miriam, arms outstretched, enthusia
stically welcoming them back. Anya climbed out of the car slowly. She smiled absent-mindedly at the couple as she walked passed them into the bar acutely aware that there were no tables laid out for dinner, no staff, eager to serve, busying themselves behind the bar. Where was Dexter? He always had a drink waiting for her. Despite the heat Anya shuddered. Everything felt wrong.
Instead of bustling about urging the staff to be even more attentive to their guests, Miriam was sitting at a table at the far end of the restaurant with a man Anya did not recognise. He was not a guest. He was wearing a suit and tie. There were papers on the table and they were deep in conversation, neither looked up as Anya set about making a large jug of punch. She had to find out what was going on and perhaps the couple on the terrace could help her.
“Good evening, my name is Anya, would you like some rum punch? On the house. May I join you?” Seeing their perplexed expressions she added “I’m Anya Philips. I am the owner of Fishermen Rock.”
In a short while she had a good picture of what was going on. ‘The hotel had been crowded,’ the couple told her ‘over Christmas it had been full.’ ‘Yes. We’ve had a wonderful time.’ ‘A brilliant Christmas’. But then there had been an outbreak of food poisoning. Some officials had been called in by the doctor. The kitchen had been closed down. ‘We’re not staying here now, we just came to say goodbye to Miriam before we go back to the UK.’
“That’s very good of you.” Anya was trying to take in the scale of the problem Miriam was facing. Perhaps there had been other problems over the past few years that he had never known about. A rising tide of guilt engulfed her; how little she had been involved with the hotel, how many burdens she had put on Miriam, how little use she had been.
“You seem to be very fond of the hotel.”
Highly Unsuitable Girl Page 32