by Nina Stibbe
‘No, he’s very unwell, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘It has been most pleasant for him to come out here.’
‘That’s good,’ I said.
‘But I must go back to him,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Lizzie.’ And he rushed back to the Datsun on the humpback bridge.
I reached Paradise Lodge and made my apologies for being late and in school uniform. I whistled as I worked. Miss Brixham complained and said I was no better than a crowing hen. But I couldn’t help it. I was happy.
It had been a hot summer and was still hot. Though all of us liked the sunshine, we were all still a bit raw after the year before, when we’d been through the famous heatwave that people have never stopped talking and writing about. And though you’ll be sick of hearing and reading stories built around it, I’ll just tell you it was the year Mr Holt moved into our house and became our man at the helm and the heatwave caused no end of worry. It really started at the end of June and Mr Holt hadn’t liked it. It wasn’t so much the having to work in ridiculous hot weather but the frustration that he couldn’t clean the Snowdrop Laundry vans due to the hosepipe ban that was soon in force. He liked things squeaky clean but he also understood the necessity for the ban. He said so and he’d never cheat it, like some neighbours did. As the heat continued, there was talk of extreme water conservation methods, which worried him even more, with laundry not being classed as essential. We’d had the elm trees chopped down earlier in the year and that had seemed symbolic, and now the freak weather made it seem that nature had turned against us.
And I was privately fretful, that hot summer, that being a step-parent was turning out badly for him, that somehow we three children were like the dusty vans he couldn’t clean, the lawn that had perished away to hay and was then nothing but hard mud, and the beautiful, tall elm trees he couldn’t save, and now the worry about future drought measures might be slowly tipping him over the edge, worry-wise. Mr Holt might leave, I thought, and we’d be back at square one, fatherless, which isn’t as great as it sounds—back then, anyway.
Having a step-parent is stressful to start with—you always worry that the step-parent might change their mind and leave. If your real parent could leave and start again with another family, then why not the step-parent. That was how I saw it. But Mr Holt never did leave us and actually we stopped worrying after Danny was born because if he’d coped with having a surprise baby he was going to be fine with most things.
That’s not to say there weren’t problems and difficulties from time to time. And just about then—when Danny was around a year old and Sister Saleem was beginning to improve the situation at Paradise Lodge—my mother had a big argument with Mr Holt that she felt she’d never get over. She’d clipped a bollard at a complicated junction on the by-pass, and to keep things simple she’d tried to make out that someone had hit the car while it was parked at Woolco. The problem being, a colleague of Mr Holt had seen her clip the bollard. In the row arising Mr Holt had called her a ‘serial fantasist and compulsive liar’ and then after that he’d said things that apparently couldn’t be retracted.
She gave me the whole unabridged story as I washed out my new drip-dry uniform. It was so convenient—almost dry straight from the wash and not at all crumpled and no need to iron and such a fresh colour.
I felt strongly that the situation my mother found herself in was entirely her own fault and she’d made it worse by provoking Mr Holt into saying these non-retractable things. By saying, ‘I suppose you regret taking up with me?’ and that sort of thing. Anyway, she was going to leave, she said, if that was how he felt. Her plan was to go and rent a maisonette in town, near Gropecunt Lane so Danny could attend a Montessori nursery and become a better person than the rest of us. Not that that was how she put it, but that was the plan.
I was irritated by the whole thing. My life was here—a walkable distance to Paradise Lodge—and I didn’t want to have to leave just so my mother could make Mr Holt regret being honest. And have Danny become a better person than me into the bargain (the fate of the children of the first/failed marriage—constantly having to do things in order that the new, proper children can become better than their half-siblings).
‘I’m not going with you,’ I told my mother.
‘Well, you can’t stay here,’ she said, ‘not without me.’
Mr Holt was reasonable about it. He said we were welcome to go or stay as we pleased but that he’d like us to consider common sense and our mother’s feelings—which, to be honest, was a tall order.
So she went. Not to a rental maisonette near Gropecunt Lane but to sleep on a Zedbed in Carrie Frost’s titchy little flat near Leicester racecourse. Carrie wasn’t a friend—as such—but actually an ex-employee. She’d been an au pair for us years before when she’d been gearing up for art school, and had taught us how to sing London’s Burning in the round, which we still enjoy to this day. Anyway, my mother, Danny and Sue the dog went and we all just got on with our lives with Mr Holt. And though we missed her horribly, we didn’t worry, as we might have, had she gone for the rental maisonette, which would have seemed permanent.
I was getting ready for work in the morning. Our mother had been gone a day and a night and the house didn’t feel quite right. And though I wasn’t desperately worried about her, I still had a nervousness in my throat that reminded me of all the awful things the world had done to her. All the men who’d had sex with her twice, even though she’d sobbed the first time, the man who’d punched her in the face with his elbow, the one who’d stolen all her money and the woman driver who called her a sissy because she daren’t step on to the zebra crossing because a great fear had got hold of her. And the close relative who pretended he was going to strangle her when her mother wasn’t looking, and called her an idiot because she’d believed him and cried.
Miranda appeared in the street opposite my house. We often found ourselves walking to and from Paradise Lodge together. I hated telling her anything personal. She had such a warped sense of things and might say, ‘Typical of Mr Holt,’ when she had no right thinking anything was typical of him because she didn’t even know him. She had a way of extrapolating that was distorted and wrong.
I really didn’t want to talk about my family with her, especially then. So, as usual, I brought up Mike. To be honest, if someone talked about my boyfriend as much as I talked about Mike Yu to Miranda, I think I’d feel a bit territorial or possessive. But Miranda didn’t. She loved talking about him and suspected nothing.
I said, straight out, ‘How’s Mike Yu?’ and that set her off on a wonderful ramble and I knew I needn’t worry about it slipping out that my mother had run away with our baby and our dog.
That morning she told me that they’d been to see Smokey and the Bandit and how they’d devised a method of holding hands in a highly erotic way, squeezing and moving and wriggling and holding a single finger, touching finger-tips on finger-tips, stroking the other’s palm with fingernails etc. Miranda said it was wonderful because no one could tell they were being erotic, and although it was unbelievably erotic she could still watch the film and take most of it in and eat sweets with her free hand.
‘How is Mike’s grandfather?’ I asked, breaking the spell.
‘Ugh,’ she said, ‘I don’t know, but poor Mike’s always having to cart him about.’
I didn’t know what to say to that and we walked in silence until Miranda said, ‘Mike’s wonderful, though—he doesn’t mind about me and Big Smig.’
‘Mind what?’ I asked.
‘That I let Big Smig park his car in my garage,’ she said. ‘You know, when we were going out.’
‘I thought Big Smig had a motorbike,’ I said.
Miranda laughed then.
And I said, ‘Oh, I see.’ Because it was a metaphor.
Being at work didn’t do much to occupy my mind. I managed to convince myself my mother was fine and would soon get fed up with Carrie’s cramped conditions and poor taste in music and she’d come home. But other
worries started crowding in. Firstly, Mike Yu. I felt sad, thinking of him not understanding Miranda’s ‘car and garage’ metaphor—which he wouldn’t, any more than I had—and probably thought the relationship between Miranda and Big Smig had involved the Longladys’ car port. Not that it even mattered but I felt horrible knowing about it. And then, there was the whole ‘O’ Level thing and wondering if I should have been so combative with Pitt.
Lady Briggs said I looked pensive and asked me for my secrets. I didn’t want to talk to Lady Briggs about my thoughts or secrets—she seemed too mad to understand any of it, or in fact to enjoy it—but I was sorry for her, having only me to talk to.
‘I have nothing very interesting to tell you,’ I said, ‘except that I’m only fifteen and shouldn’t really be doing this job and that my mother has left my stepdad because she’s let herself down.’
‘And will she come back?’ asked Lady Briggs.
‘Yes, I expect she’s back already, she can’t stand being away from home,’ I said.
And Lady Briggs pointed to her secret telephone and asked if I’d like to give my mother a ring to see if she was home. I said no thank you. I knew I’d cry if she didn’t answer or Jack answered it and then I’d have let myself down.
‘She’ll be back in no time. I’m not worried,’ I said.
‘So, why are you so sad?’
‘I feel melancholy for some reason,’ I said, and Lady Briggs held my elbow and stared into my eyes until her tagged eyelids twitched.
‘I’m sad about Emma Mills,’ I said and wished I hadn’t said it.
‘Emma Mills?’ said Lady Briggs. ‘What are you sad about her for?’
‘I dropped her,’ I said, ‘remember, and she died.’
‘Oh, yes, but I don’t think worrying about that is a good idea, and neither do I think your mother’s romantic entanglement should be uppermost in your mind. I’d guess that you are on the brink of falling in love, right now,’ she said, clicking and spooky. ‘And that’s why you’re melancholy.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said.
‘Yes, yes, I’m certain of it. I’d say you are in love already,’ she said, ‘you just haven’t realized.’
‘Gosh,’ I said, (we weren’t allowed to say ‘God’, or ‘shit’, in front of the patients). ‘You sound like a witch.’
And she laughed. She was mad and spooky, and I vowed to stop talking to her as though she were normal.
17. In Love
The next day we had coffee break in the kitchen and Sister Saleem told us the Asian boy was outside in his car, either asleep or very sad. Miranda dashed out and appeared back in the kitchen with Mike Yu in tow. Mike had obviously been upset and was reluctant to come into the kitchen but there was no way Miranda was going to miss the opportunity to show him off in this romantic state—especially after the egg fu yung success—and she literally dragged him in and said, ‘Erm, everyone, Mike’s granddad has died and he’s really upset.’
Sister Saleem offered her sincere condolences and a cup of tea. Mike dabbed his eyes with a proper hanky and Miranda answered for him, saying, ‘Black, three sugars.’
I felt extremely sad. Too sad really.
‘No milk?’ Sister checked.
You could see how proud Miranda was of him not taking milk. It seemed so sophisticated and mature.
‘He doesn’t take milk,’ she said, ‘he has it black.’
The table was intrigued and Matron was irritated.
‘The only milk he ever had was his mother’s, wasn’t it, hun?’ said Miranda.
‘I had some Angel Delight by accident once,’ Mike said, being 100 per cent honest, as usual. And the table was delighted to hear such a charming thing.
He was holding it together and sipping his tea (black, three sugars) when the owner jangled in and said, ‘Aha, hello, young sir.’
And Miranda said, ‘This is my fiancé, Mike Yu. His granddad’s just died.’
And the owner said, ‘Condolences, condolences—he was a good Roman, I’m sure.’
And Mike broke down again and kept squeezing his eyes and saying, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
Miranda must have wished she’d persevered with learning the Chinese language and that she could say comforting Chinese things like, ‘There, there, darling,’ in Chinese, because all eyes were on her and Mike and it would have been impressive. But she couldn’t and just said, ‘It was a release, Mike, he’d had a good innings,’ in English—and told us that the old man had been ill for some time.
The owner asked which nursing home he’d been in and how the fee tariff worked, and Mike said that his granddad had been at home with them all the time and that they’d taken turns to care for him. Miranda made a ‘yuck’ face behind Mike Yu’s back and everyone felt extra sorry for him—knowing his life had been affected in this way.
‘Jesus,’ said Carla B, ‘he was there, in your house, dying? Yuck.’
‘Yeah, I know, and Mike had to feed him mushed-up noodles,’ said Miranda.
I kept waiting for a part of this to be a joke (or even a bizarre dream) but it wasn’t. It was like something from J. B. Priestley—all these awful people, saying thoughtless things to this innocent boy in such grief and despair.
Mike Yu looked at me through his beautiful tears. It was as though he was thinking the same thing (that it was like something from J. B. Priestley) and I couldn’t stop looking back.
‘What was your grandfather’s zodiac sign?’ I asked, not that I was interested, but wanting to distance myself from the shallow madness of the others.
‘He was born in the Year of the Rabbit,’ said Mike, ‘he was hospitable, graceful and sensitive.’
‘And you know, Lizzie, down by the canal. Remember, the kingfisher? That was…’ he said, but couldn’t finish what he was saying.
Miranda jolted to attention. ‘When were you down by the canal?’ she asked.
‘Grandpapa and I met Lizzie, and she’d seen a kingfisher,’ said Mike, and then to clarify for Sister who looked puzzled, ‘a rare bird with some significance.’
‘Did your grandpapa see this bird?’ asked Sister Saleem.
‘No, but he knew Lizzie had seen it,’ said Mike, ‘and that she had come to tell him he would soon be at peace.’
I had to get away. I mumbled something about hearing a bell, stubbed out my half-finished fag and dashed upstairs to Lady Briggs’ room.
I was in love with Mike Yu.
18. Woman on the Edge of Time
My mother was still not home and I was missing her. And though I’d been feeling very mature in my new position in life (and in love) I’d sill really, really hated her being away—probably sad and frightened and possibly having unwanted sex, though probably not (seeing as she was at Carrie Frost’s).
I made a list of things to tell her about—including Matron’s new straw-coloured hair, Sister Saleem’s euphemism ban and the garden plan. I knew she’d wholeheartedly approve of everything and fall even more in love with Sister Saleem, whom she already loved for a variety of reasons.
I went to the phone box and rang Carrie Frost’s number. Carrie Frost answered, which was inevitable but nevertheless irritating. She said our mother had that very minute left and was on her way home. Carrie was glad I’d rung because she wanted to give me some pointers about our mother’s state of mind.
‘Give her some acknowledgement,’ said Carrie, ‘she’s just coming out of her post-natal slump.’
I had literally no idea what she was talking about—not knowing the term ‘post-natal’—but I said, ‘OK.’ And drifted off while Carrie continued with some gibberish, which might have been useful except I couldn’t concentrate, Carrie Frost was that kind of well-meaning idiot. I remembered an incident, years ago, when Carrie had been our au pair and Little Jack had wanted her to lift him up and had said, ‘Carry!’ and she’d said, ‘Yes?’ and he’d said, ‘Carry!’ again and I’d seen that there was a misunderstanding but hadn’t the energy to explain. This was ho
w my life felt at that moment. And then the pips went and Carrie called out, ‘Be nice to her!’
By the time I got home, my mother was there, acting cool, and Danny was playing with a cloth octopus Carrie had run up for him with fabric scraps.
She apologized for having gone off but explained how easy it was for a woman to lose credibility and now she wanted the slate wiped clean and to make a fresh start with her credibility intact. And to read and discuss more contemporary writers and bake her own malt loaf to put in our packed lunches and not have to buy Soreen.
My sister told her that we loved her and didn’t need her reviews of contemporary fiction or the malt loaf and I told her it had been utterly miserable while she was away, which was true.
‘Did you have an OK time at Carrie’s?’ I asked.
‘Of course not,’ she said, ‘but she did teach me how to draw people.’
And our mother demonstrated this new skill by sketching a quick person via a series of circular shapes. It was a fundamental tool of figurative drawing, she explained, promoted by all the great art schools and even the least arty people could get a decent result. I did notice that my mother’s person had a very short neck but didn’t say anything—remembering what Carrie had said on the phone—and I made a huge fuss of the sketch and so did my sister.
‘Wow, that’s brilliant,’ I said.
‘Thanks,’ said our mother, proving how easy it is to please someone.
The feeling that she’d lost all credibility with Mr Holt was still uppermost in her mind. She knew as well as we did that this newly acquired drawing skill wouldn’t count for much with Mr Holt, but for some reason she kept drawing people.
Credibility seemed a strange and intangible thing for her to dwell on. Ironically, none of us could be honest with her about it and had to tell her she’d not (lost all credibility) even though she most definitely had now lost the tiny shred she’d previously possessed. The thing we all knew—but which was difficult to say—was that she’d had barely any credibility to start with and none of us had ever minded. And that realizing she had none was actually a very promising thing—a sign of the beginnings of normality—after all her drugs and drink and terminated pregnancies etc. Though no one had the heart to put it quite like that.