Of course he knew this, but how chancily these things creep up and pounce. Only now did it hit him. Viv was going to have his baby. He had to lean against the car, he felt so dizzy.
Ann laid out the bowls of peanuts and looked around the lounge. The fact that she had gone to the trouble of setting her hair made her feel nervous. Don’t be foolish she thought. Don’t panic.
Ken had only just come in from work. He was in the kitchen, washing his hands. She remembered a TV production of Macbeth: how Lady Macbeth kept washing her hands. What was it she was trying to clean?
Instead of asking this she said: ‘What is it?’
‘Timber preservative. Can’t get it off.’
She smiled. ‘At least you won’t get dry rot.’
He didn’t reply. She went up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. He flinched, and moved aside for a scrubbing brush.
She said: ‘Ken, please don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’
‘Always push me away.’
He didn’t turn, but held up his hands. ‘I’m filthy,’ he said.
‘What’s happened? Ann stood in the hall, staring at Viv: her eyelids were swollen and red; a tear slid down her cheek.
Viv blew her nose. ‘Just a cold.’ She pointed to Ollie. ‘His.’
Ann breathed again, normally. ‘Come in and sit down,’ she said. ‘Sure you’re OK?’
‘Fine.’
Ollie said: ‘We’ve all got to take care of her now.’
Ann looked at him sharply. They sat down. Viv looked around the room with the curiosity of a newcomer. What was she seeing, and with whose eyes now? Ann realized, with a feeling like liquid draining from her stomach, that Viv would never again be simply her sister.
Ken came in with the wine. Viv inspected her fingernails. Ann looked at Viv’s bent head; her curly hair pulled up with butterfly clips.
Ollie said: ‘Ah, Chablis.’
Ken sat down and cleared his throat. ‘What we’ve got to decide is, who to tell and what to say.’
Nobody replied. Viv blew her nose again, then raised her head. ‘We’ll tell them the truth.’ She screwed up her Kleenex into a ball, aimed, and threw it into the wastepaper basket.
Ken said: ‘Is that wise?’
Ann asked: ‘What’ll you tell the children?’
‘That I’m having a baby and giving it to you.’
Ollie, who was leaning over for a handful of peanuts, stopped. ‘But who’s having the baby?’
‘Me and . . .’
‘You and who?’ he insisted.
‘We’ll tell them everything,’ she said.
‘Will we?’ Ollie asked. He ate his handful of peanuts in one gulp and looked at her.
‘We believe in telling the truth,’ she said.
‘Do we?’ he asked.
There was silence. They all looked at the aquarium. The fish flicked luminously to and fro, as if an aquatic paintbrush was busy. Viv took out her cigarettes and lit one. Ann shifted in her seat. Viv caught her eye and stubbed it out.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ said Ann.
Viv looked around at them all, her red eyes wide, and asked: ‘Why should we hide anything?’
Viv was in the kitchen, finding the kitchen roll. She pulled some off and blew her nose.
Ken came up behind her. ‘Viv –’
‘Stay away!’ she cried.
He stared.
She tried to smile. ‘Don’t want to catch my cold, do you?’ she asked, and went back into the lounge.
Ollie looked at the glass coffee table, with its brass edges. He looked at the framed reproductions of Degas dancers, and then he looked at Ken’s veneered units. It was all so known, yet today entirely unfamiliar. He thought: none of this is happening.
He gazed into the aquarium but what he remembered was the soft skin on the inside of Ellie’s thighs. He remembered, yesterday, sitting in her room while she played the recorder, grave and simple as a child. He remembered, afterwards, touching the corners of her mouth with his tongue.
Vera and Douglas’s new flat was in a mansion block, up towards Highgate. It was one of those buildings with a bit of landscaping out front and some fancy Edwardian brickwork. Perhaps it reminded Vera of lost splendours.
Now she stood, poised on the pavement, as a removal man carried a table from the lorry. ‘Oh be careful!’ she said. ‘It’s very fragile.’
‘Look, lady,’ he answered. ‘I’ll do my job and you do yours.’
She pointed. ‘There is a scratch.’
He ignored her and carried it towards the entrance hall.
She turned to Viv. ‘Some men, they are such brutes.’
Viv laughed. ‘But look at the muscles on him.’
‘What?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Sometimes Viv missed her mother. ‘Leave them to it.’ she said. ‘Come and have a cup of tea.’
On the way back they met Ann, shopping. They walked to Viv’s house together. It was a calm, grey day. If Viv had known then what was going to happen, she would have felt it as the stillness before the storm. As it was, she just felt that air of significance that hangs over a day when someone is moving house.
Vera sat down, sighing. Like many well-groomed women, an outsider had to look at her twice before they realized she was exhausted. Viv went over to the kettle but Ann stopped her.
‘Let me.’
‘I’m not an invalid,’ said Viv.
‘Still feel sick?’
Viv nodded. ‘A bit.’
‘Wish I could feel sick for you.’
They both made the tea and sat down at the table. Vera said: ‘Your father, he is in such a temper.’
‘Moving’s bad for the blood pressure,’ said Viv.
‘Shouting here, shouting there,’ said Vera.
Viv asked: ‘Does he shout at you?’
Vera sipped her tea, and then said: ‘All men shout. Because they do not get in touch with their feelings, in here.’ She touched her breast.
Viv asked: ‘The other day, why did he get so angry?’
‘Pardon?’ asked Vera.
‘When you were here. Why did he get so angry with you?’
Vera sipped her tea and said, after a moment: ‘Oh, it was nothing.’
‘But he made you cry,’ said Viv. ‘In front of everyone.’
Vera said: ‘It was me to blame.’
Viv sighed. ‘He can be very violent.’
‘No!’ Vera shook her head frowning.
Ann said: ‘He can.’
‘You don’t understand!’ Vera spoke loudly.
‘We do,’ said Ann. ‘We know him, we’re his daughters.’
Suddenly Vera burst into tears. They stared at her, appalled.
‘I didn’t mean . . .’ began Ann. ‘What is it?’
Vera fumbled in her bag and brought out a handkerchief. Ann went over and sat beside her.
‘I can’t say,’ said Vera.
‘Tell us, please,’ said Viv.
Vera raised her swollen face. ‘It’s not my business,’ she said. ‘I come here, into this family, I am an outsider. I want to belong, to be part of this, and now –’
‘You are!’ said Ann.
‘All the barriers,’ said Vera, shaking with sobs. ‘All the secrets.’
‘You mean the baby?’ asked Viv.
‘No.’ said Vera. ‘Not the baby.’
‘What is it?’ asked Ann.
Vera turned to her, and then to Viv. ‘It’s you.’
‘Us?’ asked Viv. ‘But you’re welcome here, we’re delighted –’
‘No!’ said Vera.
‘You are!’ said Viv.
Vera blew her nose. They sat there, watching her. She put away her handkerchief and shut her bag with a click. Then she said, in a low voice: ‘He was wrong.’
‘Who was?’ asked Viv. ‘About what?’
‘Wrong for never speaking, all these years.’
‘Who do you mean?�
�� asked Viv.
‘Your father.’
‘What hasn’t he said?’ asked Ann.
Viv asked: ‘He hasn’t told you something?’
Vera looked at them both. ‘It’s you he hasn’t told. The two of you.’
There was a pause. Ann said: ‘You must tell us. Please.’
Vera took a breath, then stopped. She looked at them both, again, as if making up her mind. Then she spoke. ‘You are not real sisters.’
A moment passed. Then Viv whispered: ‘What?’
Vera didn’t reply. She simply gazed at them, as if in pain.
‘Go on,’ said Ann.
‘Your mother, she is the same,’ said Vera, turning to Ann. ‘But Douglas is not your father.’
_____Fourteen_____
ANN IS STANDING in Sainsbury’s. She thinks: I’m always shopping. Why am I always shopping?
The packets bewilder and depress her. The light is so bright; it hurts her head. There are shelves of what is simply water, bottled. She wants to laugh, but she can’t. She’d make a noise and everyone would look. The planet is silting up with empty plastic bottles that once contained water. Where does madness lie?
She must move on. She walks past yoghurt pots with Mr Men on them, leering at her. She is filled with fear because she can’t make up her mind what to buy, but if she admits this the panic will get worse. Better never to speak, even to yourself. Besides, soon you might be talking out loud. In her dream she thought she knew what she was seeking. She cannot shake that dream away; it has lingered for weeks, like a taste at the back of her mouth, where the thinking begins. She had only found bags of knitting, squashed into the shelves. How large and echoing that supermarket had been; she shivers to remember it. Those silly mewlings. She had never found out what she was looking for. Now she knows that she had never deserved to.
A man passes; he is about sixty. He turns away from her to look at the meat – chops, sliced across the bone. Red and moist. Somewhere, there is a man of perhaps sixty who is her father. She feels she is walking on a moving floor; it is sliding beneath her feet like those rubber walkways at airports, and she wants to get off. How clen the sawing is – through the bone, the nerves and the flesh. Someone felt the pain; but on the other hand, who can tell?
She feels weightless, and bereft, and very, very tired. She also feels queasy, as if the bulk of her internal organs have been surgically removed. But she finishes her shopping, because she must remember that she is workable still.
‘Can I help you?’ asked the stylist.
‘Is Irene Smith here?’ asked Ann.
The young man looked in the book. ‘Have you got an appointment?’
Ann shook her head.
‘She’s got a space at three o’clock,’ he said.
‘She’s my mother.’
He laughed. ‘Sorry, I’m new.’
‘But I’ll take the three o’clock space,’ said Ann.
Ann sat at the mirror. She wore a wrap; she felt like a patient about to undergo an operation. She hadn’t been to the salon for a year; the place had been redecorated with palms and wickerwork. Frank and her mother stood behind her.
‘So he popped the question in Venice,’ said her mother. ‘He said, can we be VAT-registered together?’
‘What?’ asked Ann, looking at her mother in the mirror.
She pointed to Frank. ‘He’s made me his business partner. Aren’t you proud of your mum?’
Ann didn’t reply. Her mother pursed her mouth – such crimson lipstick – and touched Ann’s hair.
‘So what’s it to be?’
‘Just do something,’ said Ann.
‘What?’ She raised her eyebrows.
‘Cut it all off. Do anything.’
Irene smiled. ‘At last she says so. You leave it to Mum.’
‘I want it bleached in streaks.’
‘Smashing.’
‘And permed.’
‘Can’t do both,’ said her mother. ‘Bad for the hair.’
‘To hell with my hair.’
‘Annie!’
Frank said: ‘So it’s carte blanche, is it?’
Irene lifted strands of Ann’s hair and let them fall. ‘She’s always had stubborn hair,’ she said. ‘When she was small we had such fights about her plaits. All those rubber bands you had then. One day I couldn’t stand it any more and I cut them off with the kitchen scissors, snip snip. Remember, Annie?’
Frank laughed. ‘And you still trust her?’ he asked Ann. ‘A mother who’s been so cruel?’
‘I hated them,’ said Ann.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘My plaits.’
She felt her mother’s hands on her head, tilting it first one way, then the other. ‘I’d say all this off,’ said Irene, ‘and here, and layered for lift.’
‘She’s got a nice bone structure, hasn’t she?’ said Frank. ‘Takes after her mum.’
‘No I don’t,’ said Ann.
‘You do,’ he said. ‘You just can’t see it.’
Her mother spoke. ‘Like I’ve always said, Annie, you’ve got the potential, always have. Just got to make the best of yourself.’
Frank touched Ann’s head. ‘A light perm here, in my humble opinion, just for body.’
‘Do what you like,’ said Ann.
Frank turned to Irene. ‘Wish they were all so amenable,’ he said.
‘Must go,’ said Ollie, twisting his hand so he could look at his watch. This was tricky, as Daisy had his hand splayed out on a piece of paper. She was tracing around his fingers.
‘You’re always going out,’ she said.
Viv shot a look at Ollie; she did shoot it, like a dart. She too was trapped by their offspring. Rosie was tracing around her hand.
Daisy went on: ‘You’re always shouting.’
‘What?’ said Ollie.
‘You and Mum.’ Rosie went on tracing. ‘You’ve got dirty fingernails.’
‘Sorry,’ said Ollie. ‘What’s all this for, anyway?’
‘Our collection.’
‘Well,’ he said ‘get a move on.’
‘Where are you going?’ Viv asked.
Rosie interrupted: ‘You make Mummy sick too.’
‘What?’ asked Ollie.
‘We’ve heard her.’
Both girls started making retching noises. Daisy, who had learnt to belch on demand, did that too.
‘Shut up!’ shouted Viv.
Ann’s hair hung wet around her face. Her mother started snipping.
Ann said: ‘I saw Vera last week.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘We had a talk.’
Her mother said: ‘Never thought he’d go for somebody like that.’
‘Why?’
‘Always said he didn’t like mousy women.’ She tilted Ann’s head. ‘That’s better.’ She went on cutting, snip, snip. ‘Still, you know your father.’
‘No I don’t.’
‘Contrary old git. Once he gets an idea –’
‘He’s not my father,’ said Ann.
Her mother’s hand stopped. She looked at Ann in the mirror. ‘What did you say?’
‘Dad’s not my father.’
Her mother didn’t reply. She stood there, the scissors hanging in her hand.
‘How could you not tell me?’ said Ann. ‘All these years?’
Irene cleared her throat. Her lower lip trembled; Ann had never seen that expression on her face before. Her round blue eyes stared at Ann in the mirror. She said: ‘Your father and I – I mean Douglas and I – we decided to let bygones be bygones.’ She looked around. ‘Can’t talk here.’
‘So you were pregnant with me when you got married.’
Her mother nodded. ‘He was ever so decent, Dougie. He said: who was to know? He said, we’ll bring it up just like – I mean you – just like you was his.’
‘He didn’t, did he?’
‘What?’
‘Bring me up like I was his.’ Ann looked at the reflection of her moth
er. ‘He never did.’
The children had run outside. Ollie stood in the hall, holding his briefcase.
Viv asked: ‘Shall we tell them it’s your child?’
‘And let them think I’d give away my own baby?’
‘Well I am,’ she answered.
‘They’ll start having nighmares about packing cases.’
‘What does it matter who the father is?’ she said. ‘You or Ken.’
‘One day it’ll have to know. Let’s hope it takes it better than Ann.’
He moved towards the door.
She said: ‘You off?’
He nodded. ‘Just got to look up some things at the office.’
‘I see.’
‘Back in –’ he began.
She finished for him: ‘– a couple of hours.’
They looked at each other. He opened the door, and left.
Viv went back into the kitchen. She stood at the table, looking at the drawings of their two ghostly hands.
Ann looked at herself in the mirror. She was transformed; there was no other word for it. Her hair was short and streaked and feathery. She looked new; she was a whole new person with whom Ann must become acquainted. She looked a great deal prettier.
She got up and went to the desk. There were only two customers left. She had already written a cheque; she gave it to her mother, and with it three pound notes.
‘Annie!’ said her mother.
‘It looks very nice.’
Irene pushed the money back at her. ‘You ninny.’
Ann left the money on the desk and turned to go. Irene grabbed her sleeve.
‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘Look, we’re closing in a moment. Stay and we can talk.’
Ann shook her head. Then she realized she was still wearing the wrap. She pulled it off, grabbed her coat and left the salon.
Ann stood at the bus stop. A chill wind blew. Mothers, laden with Saturday shopping, waited in the queue. In front of Ann stood a small boy, eating chips from a Kentucky box. He gazed up at Ann, and then offered her a chip from his carton. She smiled, hesitated and took a chip. The boy’s mother saw and slapped his hand.
The sky was darkening; soon it would rain. Ann’s exposed neck was cold. Beside her was a showroom of brass beds, bathed in spotlight; on the glass were pasted signs saying FINAL REDUCTIONS. She waited. She looked at the head of the little boy in front of her. He had been given a crew-cut; the fuzz barely blurred the shape of his young skull.
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