by Claire Sandy
‘You took your time. I almost hung up. Where were you? Timbuctoo? I thought something had happened. Not that anybody would think to tell me. You could all be dead and nobody’d bother to let me know.’
‘We’re all alive, I promise.’ Fern kept her tone light. The quickest, simplest way to deal with her aunt was to ignore the jibes. Nora was eternally spoiling for a fight and Fern refused to give her one. ‘How are you, Auntie? We must come and visit.’
This white lie – the family would rather holiday in hell than knock on Nora’s front door – was pounced on with relish. ‘You can’t, dear. Not any more. They’re knocking me house down.’
‘Who are “they”?’ asked Fern, alarmed.
‘The government. There’s one of them compulsory purchase doodahs on Mother’s beautiful house. It’s being knocked down to build a new road.’
The ‘beautiful house’ was a dimly lit bungalow, full of flammable upholstery and a very old, very farty cat, all of which Nora had shared with Fern’s terrifying Nana since the dawn of time. With Nana long dead, Nora looked after the house as if it was a museum dedicated to her memory.
‘Oh dear,’ said Fern, adding ‘That’s awful.’ Nora displayed so few human traits it was hard to know how to sympathize, even for somebody like Fern, who felt everybody’s pain. ‘Isn’t there anything you can do to stop them?’
‘Like what?’ Nora was scornful. She was good at scorn; she and Nana had practised daily and it paid off. ‘Lie down in front of the bulldozers? I’m ringing to say you can expect me on Sunday. I require an electric blanket and don’t offer me decaffeinated tea, please. It does terrible things to me innards.’
‘Sorry? What?’ Fern felt as if she’d fallen asleep and missed the body of the dialogue. ‘I don’t under—’
‘I’ve been cast out of my home, Fern. I’m homeless. I have nowhere to go. Are you saying you won’t take me in?’
‘I’m just saying—’ Fern said very little, because Nora butted in once more.
‘Is it money? Do you want money? I’ve only got pennies but have them, have them! If my giving up all dreams of happiness in order to look after your beloved Nana means nothing to you, then take it all.’
‘Auntie! Of course I don’t want your—’
‘I’ll go to a hotel. And get beaten to death.’
Yes, because that’s how hotels work. Fern sighed. Conversations with Nora always went along these lines. The woman was a runaway shopping trolley hurtling down a hill, and it was all Fern could do to keep up. She ascertained what time to expect her wrinkled relative, made promise after promise about control of the TV remote during Emmerdale, silence during nap times, and fresh prawns for her antique cat. By the time Fern hung up, she had a lodger.
‘Mummy!’ Tallulah’s shout sounded outraged as Fern trailed back to the table. ‘Daddy’s being sexy!’
‘Really?’ said Fern, incredulously.
‘The word,’ said Adam, ‘is sexist. And I wasn’t.’
‘You were. You said I look pretty in my new T-shirt. That’s sexist.’ Tallulah banged the table. Passionately idealistic, she fought the good fight against the isms: racism; ageism; eight-year-old-girl-ism. Her core cause was sexism; she was the smallest, most vehement feminist in her postcode. ‘You should say I look clever.’
Ollie saw his cue. ‘But you don’t. You look like a dork.’
‘Nobody looks like a dork,’ said Fern firmly, taking her seat, reaching for the salad bowl, thinking better of it, snaffling a chip. ‘And aren’t you a little old to trade insults with an eight-year-old?’ She eyed Ollie, or tried to; it was easy for him to retreat under that overhanging hair.
‘Which mocks did you have this week, Ollster?’ Adam, baffled by his son’s brains, was also proud of them. ‘Maths, wasn’t it?’
‘Another “A”, I suspect,’ laughed Fern. ‘It’s so boring having a genius for a son.’
‘I won’t get an “A”,’ mumbled Ollie, with a ‘please change the subject or I’ll die of parent-based embarrassment’ tone.
‘I’m not saying anything,’ said Tallulah. ‘Nothing at all. Don’t try and get it out of me, Mum.’
‘All right, darling, I won’t,’ said Fern, amused. Then she paused. Something in Ollie’s demeanour, a still watchfulness, made her ask, ‘What mustn’t I try and get out of you, Tallulah?’
‘Stop it! I’m no snitch.’ Tallulah, cheeks hot, glared at the tablecloth.
‘Tallie?’ Adam was gentle.
‘Thanks, Tallulah,’ spat Ollie. ‘Thanks a million.’
Tallulah burst into tears. Not big on crying, when it happened it was spectacular. With those abrupt about-turns typical of her age group, she morphed from militant to clingy. Scrambling onto Fern’s lap, she burrowed into her mum’s chest, reciting a muffled mantra of ‘Sorry sorry sorry.’
‘Ollie.’ Fern dusted off her special calm-yet-stern voice. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Look, God, shut up.’ Ollie flailed around, trying hard to be affronted, before giving in and saying, all on one breath, ‘I’ve left sixth form, OK?’
Fern and Adam gawped at each other. It took a few seconds for the words to sink in, then Adam was on his feet, Fern was reaching for the wine, and Tallulah was shrieking, ‘You told them! I didn’t! S’not my fault!’
‘That’s impossible.’ Adam loomed over his son, his face contorted with the effort of understanding. ‘You leave the house every morning in that horrible drip-dry suit and—’
‘And I don’t go to sixth form, OK? Jesus,’ shrugged Ollie.
‘That’s it? That’s all we get, a shrug?’
Fern flashed a warning at Adam. Anger would make Ollie retreat, turtle-like, back into his shell. ‘Ollie, darling, we need an explanation. You see that, surely?’
‘Don’t do the whole tolerant mum bit.’ Ollie didn’t have to look at his mother to know his comment had stung. ‘Why’s it such a big deal? It’s my life. I have a plan. Calm down.’
No amount of coaxing could prise this ‘plan’ from Ollie. ‘I know what I’m doing,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t hassle me. I’m not a child.’
He had never looked more like a child, but his parents beat a tactical retreat.
‘Pavlova!’ Fern stood up with a flourish, drawing a meringue line under the problem. For now.
‘What sort?’ Tallulah reserved judgement until she heard the answer and then flipped out, kissing the dog’s narrow snout with joy. ‘Strawberries, Boudicca! Strawberries!’
Over the gory red and white remains of the once-majestic pav, Fern sat back, her stomach groaning, the waistband of her jeans begging for mercy. This was the point at every midsummer meal when she and Adam would open a bottle of something halfway decent beneath the lanterns. They’d watch the children mooch away: Ollie to his room and his Spotify account, Tallulah to her small army of soft toys. And they’d move closer together, get a little drunk, get a little soppy.
Tonight, though, she had an announcement to make.
‘Dad and I,’ she began. She stalled, sending a silent plea to Adam.
‘Mum and me,’ said Adam. ‘We . . .’
‘You what?’ Ollie, who’d been the most charming little boy Fern had ever known, was showing them only his hardest face tonight. It was standard teen behaviour, Fern reminded herself. ‘I’m going out in a minute, Dad. Spit it out.’
‘Your mum, well, me, I’ve, we’ve . . .’ Adam, who wrote lyrics every day, who could come up with impromptu rhymes for toilet cleaner, was stammering.
‘Your dad’s moving out.’ Fern hated how bald that sounded but however she put it, the reality was unchangeable. Her children were struck dumb, as if somebody had pushed that elusive ‘mute’ button all parents dream of. She rushed forward into the silence, knowing it wouldn’t last long. ‘We’re not separating. Not really.’ Fern watched the colour rise in her daughter’s little face and pushed on. ‘Dad’s going to stay with Granny and Granddad for a while.’
Tallulah sucked her lips
until they were just a thin, pale line, while Ollie looked from one of his parents to the other, as if watching a slow and horrible tennis match.
His voice low and hesitant, Adam said, ‘Mum and I need to sort out some stuff.’
Fern couldn’t look him in the eye. They both heard the hollow clanging of their weasel words; they’d already tried to work things out. ‘Everything,’ she said, trying to believe it, ‘will be fine.’
‘I promise,’ added Adam, and now Fern did look directly at him, astonished by such rashness.
‘Other people’s mummies and daddies break up, not mine!’ wailed Tallulah, head back, as Boudicca looked on in alarm, her slender tail thwacking the floor anxiously. ‘Don’t go, Daddy!’
Hearing the agony in Tallulah’s voice was like nails being scratched down a blackboard. Fern put her hand over her mouth, sick that she and Adam had brought this upon their own little girl.
Adam, his eyes unhappy, reached out for Tallulah and took her small damp hand. ‘We don’t have to live together to be a family,’ he whispered. ‘We don’t have to live together to love each other.’
When they’d agreed on that line, it had sounded brave and warm. It had sounded as if it would help. Now it hung stale on the night air.
It was so short, the gap between telling the children and Adam not being there any more. His packed bags were stowed in a wardrobe, so all he had to do was pick them up, pat his jacket for his wallet and phone, and leave. He closed the door gently, but it echoed through the house as if he’d slammed it.
‘So,’ said Ollie, in a strangled voice as Fern loaded the dishwasher like a sleepwalker. ‘You never really loved each other, yeah?’
‘Don’t say that, Ollie.’ Fern struggled to keep control of her voice. ‘Grown-ups’ lives are complicated.’
‘And mine isn’t?’ Ollie sounded insulted. ‘You and Dad are important, but me and Tallie don’t matter?’
‘Did I say that?’ Fern heard the exhaustion in her voice, and knew it would sound like irritation to Ollie. ‘You matter more than anything.’
‘That’s crap, Mum, and you know it.’
‘I’m not sure what I know any more.’ Fern stood, checking her son’s expression. That had slipped out; she couldn’t bear him knowing how lost she felt. The children needed something strong to lean on, a still point in the chaos. As Adam had been the one to leave, the job fell to Fern. It was a woman’s lot, she supposed. ‘Actually, that’s wrong. I do know how Dad and I feel about you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to us.’ Don’t cry. Don’t tear up. Do. Not. ‘It’s amazing that two idiots like us managed to make something as wonderful as you out of thin air.’
‘Bit late for soppiness, Mum.’
Ollie had pulled up the drawbridge.
‘See you later, darling!’ called Fern as he left the house. At the kitchen table, alone, she shunned the come-hither looks from the half-finished wine bottle. ‘I know what you’re up to,’ she told the Viognier as she screwed its lid back on. ‘You’re trying to get me tipsy and make me cry.’
Maybe I should have told Adam that I know, she thought, looking out into the dark garden. It didn’t look romantic any more, now that the lanterns were switched off and the table was cleared. It looked overgrown, untended. A bit of a mess. Fern pushed her hair back, confronted her hollow-eyed reflection in the blank, black window. She was glad she hadn’t confronted him. I kept my dignity, she congratulated herself.
The woman in the glass didn’t look dignified. She looked sad. She looked just like you’d expect a woman to look who’d just squabbled her way into a break-up without ever once letting on that she knew about the other woman.
CHAPTER TWO
July: Potage
Kryptonite green, the home-made, super-healthy soup sat smug in the fridge, as if to say I know you hate me but you can’t bring yourself to throw me away, can you? Fern had given her all to this soup – chopping, sauteeing, processing – and it still tasted like the bottom of a garden pond.
Upending it into a pot, Fern stirred the wholesome sludge as she stared out of the window at Adam’s recording studio. A narrow wooden cabin, it had been quiet for six weeks, and she missed the reassuring tish-tish-tish that usually leaked from it.
The studio was Adam’s domain. He’d built it himself, then slowly kitted it out, adding new equipment as their budget allowed. Many times late at night Fern had appeared at his shoulder while he surfed the net, only for him to slam his laptop shut. The thumbnails he lusted over weren’t ‘slutty singles in your area’ but cheeky little microphone preamplifliers and seductive ATC monitors. With the first Roomies money Adam had bought every piece of equipment on his wish list, and now it all lay idle.
The studio door opened, and Fern was jolted by a lightning flash of déjà vu. Every day at this time, Adam used to emerge, sniffing the air hopefully, mouthing Soup? through the window. They’d sit down, slurp the soup, comment on it – ‘not one of your best, love!’ or ‘I’d happily drown in this soup’ – and discuss the countless trivialities that mattered that day.
Today, though, the figure emerging was small and hunched. Tallulah cradled a shoebox, which could mean only one thing; another patient had died in the night. Crammed with hi-tech hardware, the studio was now an insect hospital. Tallulah had converted her unhappiness into yet more concern for the suffering. Fern blew a kiss to her self-consciously woebegone daughter, and braced herself for officiating at yet another bee funeral.
One of the last things Adam had said was I’ll be back to work every day in the studio, if that’s OK. Fern had said ‘Of course,’ awkward that he should ask. She’d been relieved that some things wouldn’t change, that Adam’s lamp would still shine from the cabin window, as he composed mini epics for cat-food commercials.
But Adam hadn’t set foot in his studio. He’d come to the house, whisking the kids off for ‘treats’, occasionally staying to dinner or playing a round or two of Uno with Tallulah. One evening he’d fallen asleep in ‘his’ chair before waking up, embarrassed, and letting himself out.
A gentle pressure on Fern’s thigh alerted her to Boudicca. The sensitive pooch had laid her head along the crackling whiteness of Fern’s overall. ‘You don’t like this new set-up, do you, Boudi?’ Fern fondled the dog’s soft ears. ‘It’ll be fine,’ she promised in a whisper, pulling a face at the soup.
The iPad sat on the worktop. ‘Shall I?’ Fern asked the dog. The dog didn’t answer – Boudicca’s grasp of English didn’t stretch beyond ‘din dins’ and ‘walkies’ – so Fern took matters into her own hands.
‘Just a little look . . .’ She stroked the screen, surprising the icons to life, and bent over the iPad as if it was a good book.
There was nothing good about this reading matter.
Adam was a whizz with his recording gear, but verged on incompetent with other technical equipment. He’d never caught on that his online calendar was visible to Fern. She’d almost come clean the time she’d read, a week before her birthday, Meeting @ pub re: F’s surprise party. Hating to burst his bubble, she’d simply rehearsed a look of pure amazement for when forty people yelled Surprise! as she walked into the White Horse.
Despite their physical separation, the iPad told Fern exactly what Adam was up to today. Scrolling past 9 a.m. – dentist and 10.40 – bank meeting, she found what she was looking for. 1 p.m. – lunch P.W. @ The Wellness Shack.
Yesterday he’d lunched with P.W. at some other worthy-sounding establishment, and the evening before that they’d gone to see a play. This mysterious P.W. dotted his days, a string of pearls whose ghostly glimmer caught Fern’s eye.
She remembered the first time she’d seen those initials. Fern hadn’t been probing back then, she’d simply been looking for the date of the parents’ evening at Tallulah’s school when she’d read 4 p.m. – P.W. @ Starbucks. It had intrigued her, but not unduly. Probably some client, she’d thought, before noticing the initials again one week later. Lunch P.W. The day afte
r that: 3.30 p.m. – P.W. @ White Horse.
When, oh so very casually, she’d asked Adam where he’d been on the day of his 3.30 rendezvous, he’d answered, ‘The gym.’
That’s when it had started. The rot. The cold, damp tentacles of distrust. Fern had always boasted that she and Adam never lied to one another, but now he was covering his tracks.
Why? That question had dogged her, tripping her up on the stairs, prodding her awake at dawn, insinuating itself into her quiet moments. When Fern was upbeat, she answered Who cares? But when Fern was vulnerable, when she and Adam had argued, she would answer, Oh come on, why does any man lie about where he’s been?
Hating herself, Fern had delved further. Going through paperwork that Adam had ‘filed’ (i.e. thrown in a folder and forgotten), she married up the date of P.W.’s lunch and a receipt from a tapas place in W1. She knew what this P.W. had eaten but she knew nothing else, except that once or twice a week P.W. met A.C. at a variety of upmarket bars and restaurants. Champagne cocktails were drunk; Dover sole was eaten; hefty tips were left.
Whatever else went on was beyond the power of the receipts and the calendar to reveal. That didn’t stop Fern from gazing at them, addicted to the pain they caused. She and Adam had managed to break up their happy home without mention of the mysterious P.W.
It wasn’t cut and dried. P.W. could be a guy, some time-consuming producer. It wasn’t necessarily a Patricia or a Paula; it could just as easily be a Paul. Or a Peregrine. OK, that’s unlikely. Adam would tell her eventually, and oh, how they’d laugh. She could already hear herself hooting And there was me thinking you were having an affair! and Adam would giggle, You loony! What do you take me for?