A Not Quite Perfect Family

by Claire Sandy

  ‘You’re a naughty girl,’ she said in sugared tones, kissing Amelie’s nose. ‘You made me a granny in my early forties. I needed a few more years to train for the part. I should be in a windcheater with a handbag full of Werther’s Originals and half-used tissues. Where are my tartan slippers and my bifocals on a chain? Eh?’ She tickled Amelie’s cheek and the baby made one of the nicest noises Fern had ever heard, and her heart ballooned with tenderness for the dependent, tyrannical little scrap. ‘Let’s have a look at your great-great-Auntie’s profile, shall we?’ Fern bent over her iPad, jumping back when a picture of Nora filled the screen.

  Fern would have brandished a crucifix if she’d had one. Nobody could accuse Nora of photoshopping herself; at a funeral, all in black, Nora scowled as if there was a wasp under her strange, enormous hat.

  ‘Interesting username.’

  Nora had plumped for ‘oldgalfullaspunk’. Fern briefly considered telling her aunt that the meaning of ‘spunk’ had changed from ‘vitality’ to something quite different, but she didn’t feel up to it. Oldgalfullaspunk’s age was filled in honestly, as were her height and weight. No gilding the lily for conscientious Nora. Fern read out the ‘About Me’ section to Amelie.

  ‘I am a straightforward, reliable virgin, making up for lost time. Are you willing to fall in love before the curtain falls? I make no claims to beauty, although I do match my shoes to my bag. I don’t think I have a sense of humour. WLTM a clean man who wears a suit. No gold diggers.’

  The doorbell rang, and Amelie’s face screwed up.

  ‘Nonono,’ begged Fern, pressing her lips to the baby’s forehead. She scooted to the front door, ready to reprimand Ollie and Donna for coming home so early; she’d insisted they stay out until midnight. Instead she said, ‘Oh.’

  On the step stood a tall, lean young man, with powerful shoulders tamed by a well-cut jacket. Launching into a speech, he left Fern no time to say anything. ‘Hello. You must be Fern. I was wondering if I could . . .’ The stranger tailed off, staring at Amelie so hard that Fern held her a touch tighter.

  ‘If you could what?’ Fern kept one hand on the latch, disgruntled by the man’s hypnotized expression.

  ‘Is that her?’ He spoke softly, in awe, as if Amelie was an apparition.

  Fern joined the dots. As he shifted and the porch light found his goatee, she saw that Maz was younger than she’d assumed, only about twenty or so. ‘Yes, this is her,’ she said uncertainly, still keeping the half-closed door between them. ‘This is Amelie.’

  Handsome, with regal features and haughty, hooded eyes, Maz repeated ‘Amelie,’ wonderingly.

  The newcomer was too far away for Amelie’s newish eyes to focus on. Fern saw how much the child resembled her biological father. The same tawny palette for skin and eyes. The same exquisite eyebrows.

  ‘Donna’s out,’ said Fern. ‘So’s Ollie. I’ll tell them you came round.’ Maz springing to unexpected, vivid life on her doorstep had thrown her. This man, who’d hurt her precious Donna, allegedly claimed he wanted nothing to do with his daughter; but now he looked overcome to meet Amelie face to face.

  ‘She won’t let me see her.’

  ‘That really is between you and Donna.’

  ‘Please don’t.’ Maz put a hand out to meet the closing door. ‘She’s so beautiful. Is she, like, healthy and everything?’ He had a south London street accent, at odds with the tailored clothes.

  ‘She’s perfect.’ Fern couldn’t help smiling. It occurred to her that Amelie had another grandmother, one who never saw her, would never get to touch her warm skin.

  ‘Can I hold her?’ Maz held out long arms. ‘Please.’

  His eyes were enormous, wet-looking in this light. ‘Donna wouldn’t like it,’ said Fern apologetically.

  ‘Just for a minute. Please.’ The begging was low-key, but all the more persuasive because of it.

  Reluctantly, Fern held out the bundle of baby. At no point did she feel she was doing the right thing; he could turn and walk away, be at the gate in three strides. Something compelled her; the right of a father to hold his own daughter. She corrected Maz’s hands so he supported Amelie properly.

  ‘She’s heavy.’ Max was dazed, like a man who’d just stepped out of a plane wreck.

  ‘They might look like little flowers, but they’re tough.’ Fern held her hands together to stop herself snatching Amelie back. ‘She looks like you.’

  ‘Does she?’ Maz was pathetically grateful for her comment. ‘I’ve never held a baby before.’

  ‘It’s not hard, is it?’

  ‘Nah. It’s great.’

  ‘May I . . . It’s cold out here.’ Fern accepted the baby into her arms, relieved to have her back. ‘She should be in bed really.’

  ‘You’re looking after her dead well.’

  ‘That’s Donna’s doing,’ said Fern. She had to add, ‘And Ollie, of course,’ out of loyalty to her son, who was working himself into the ground for this guy’s daughter.

  ‘I’d better go, I s’pose.’ Maz couldn’t quite turn away, as if Amelie was a cuddly magnet and he was a pile of iron filings. ‘Goodnight, Amelie.’ He wiggled his fingers at the child.

  Amelie sneezed.

  ‘Goodnight, Maz.’ Fern leaned against the closed door, wondering what she’d just done.

  CHAPTER TEN

  April: Savoureux

  ‘If I was thirty years younger,’ murmured Pongo, as Hal bounded towards them in his vintage sheepskin jacket.

  ‘Or he was thirty years older,’ suggested Fern.

  ‘God, no, darling.’ Pongo winked one bloodshot eye. ‘He’d be in his fifties and no use to me!’ As Hal joined them she asked archly, ‘Just got out of bed, Tinkerbell?’

  Hal smiled a hello at the others. Only Fern would have noticed the microscopic raise of an eyebrow he gave her.

  ‘Did you leave some lucky girl lying in it?’ Pongo’s laugh rattled like a spoon down a waste disposal unit. She nudged Fern. ‘We think you’ve got some sweet young thing tucked away, don’t we, Boudicca?’

  ‘Do you now?’ Hal looked at Fern, his dimples dancing. ‘You could be right, ladies.’

  Maggie defended his fellow male. ‘Leave him alone.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Hal, hands in pockets, falling into step. ‘I could tell you her name.’ He seemed to enjoy Fern’s stumble. ‘But then I’d have to kill you.’

  ‘Are you crazy about her?’ Beneath her fleece, Pongo was a romantic.

  ‘Yeah.’ Hal looked at Fern. ‘I am.’

  ‘Is it reciprocated?’ Pongo seemed to enjoy living vicariously through Hal and his Miss X.

  ‘I have no idea.’ Hal was trying so hard not to laugh, the whole lower half of his face was caught up in a pout. ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s crazy about you too,’ said Fern, in a squeaky voice that made Boudi glance at her, confused.

  Pongo gushed, ‘Of course she is. Lucky girl.’

  ‘I’ll introduce you some time.’

  ‘Bring her walking with us,’ said Maggie, his bald patch gleaming in the spring light.

  ‘Great idea,’ said Hal. ‘I don’t know when I’m seeing her again, though. Could be tonight. About eight.’

  ‘That might be a bit short notice for her,’ said Fern helpfully.

  ‘Yeah. True.’ Hal scratched his chin. ‘I’ll see if she can do tomorrow evening. She has commitments, you see. She’s a very responsible girlie.’

  ‘That might be better for her.’ Fern knitted her brows. ‘Seven-thirty’s a nice time for a date, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve always liked seven-thirty,’ said Hal.

  ‘What are you two on about?’ Pongo had lost interest and was stooping to scoop up the complicated poo her Chihuahua had gifted to the public.

  ‘Does she like wine bars?’ asked Fern. ‘Does she like that one in the old fire station?’

  ‘She loves that one. I’ll suggest we meet there, tomorrow, at seven-thirty.’

&n
bsp; ‘Good luck,’ said Fern heartily.

  ‘FETCH!’ yelled Pongo, throwing a stick.

  ‘Up already, Auntie?’ Fern hung up Boudi’s lead and pulled off her gloves in the warm kitchen. All was bright and warm and clean; Evka had whisked through with her Marigolds after Fern took Tallulah to school. ‘How’d you feel?’

  ‘Fine, fine.’ This was Nora’s stock answer. If she’d been standing there with her own severed leg in a shopping bag, she’d have said the same.

  Giving Nora a discreet once-over, Fern ran through her mental checklist as she assembled an eggy breakfast for them both. No signs of eye wobble. Not particularly slow or clumsy. ‘Auntie, count for me.’

  Without hesitation, Nora chanted, ‘Twenty, nineteen, eighteen.’ Counting backwards from twenty was one of a checklist of six questions designed to screen for dementia. Fern rotated the questions, which included ‘What month is it?’ and ‘Without looking at the clock, what time is it to the nearest hour?’

  ‘Lovely.’ No signs of slurring. ‘How did your date go?’

  ‘So-so.’

  The evening before, Fern and Evka had delivered Nora to a small bistro. Hair freshly set in concrete, wearing a new and horrible nylon dress, Nora had been adamant that they leave her at the door, but her chaperones had other ideas.

  Once inside, it was obvious who was waiting for Nora. He brought the average age of the place up by a couple of decades, and wore the most hamster-like wig Fern had ever seen.

  Striding across, Evka bent over the table. ‘Good evening, sir,’ she said. ‘We are this lady’s friends. We wish you pleasant evening and we warn you that if you disrespect her I find you and break neck like matchstick.’

  ‘He seemed friendly.’ And gaga. Fern doubted if the old chap could count backwards from twenty, or even find his own face with his hands.

  ‘Sure, he was a looker, but the man lied to me, Fern.’

  Recovering from the notion that hamster-head was ‘a looker’, Fern asked ‘How?’

  ‘He took five years off his age. He claimed to be a mere seventy-eight, but the lying toad was eighty-three.’

  ‘Isn’t that just a little white lie, Auntie?’ Fern felt sorry for Nora’s beau, kicked to the kerb in his baggy suit.

  ‘I live honestly now. I pray to God every night to forgive the lies I told you.’

  ‘What lies?’ Fern stepped back in theatrical horror. ‘You mean . . . you’re not my Auntie?’

  ‘Cheeky,’ said Nora. ‘You know the lie I’m referring to. I should have been straight with you about my symptoms, but I was scared you’d turn me away if you knew I was sick.’

  Life had taught Nora to distrust people, that there was no bright side. ‘We all tell lies, Auntie.’ Fern’s secrets were lies by another name. Hal was classified information; it was common sense not to tell her children – not yet, anyway – but Fern couldn’t explain why she kept it from Adam. After all, how can I be unfaithful to a man who’s left me for a new lover?

  A lot had changed since Fern had reluctantly let Nora come to stay. Would I have turned her away if I’d known she was sick? Fern hoped the answer was ‘no’; the crotchety old hen who’d almost pecked her to death had become more human since giving up her secrets. Nora could sympathize – to a point – with others, and was now a fully paid-up member of the family.

  ‘Have you given any more thought to sleeping down here?’

  ‘I like me loft.’

  ‘The same loft you were going to write to the Pope about? You said there were mice and draughts and a funny smell.’

  ‘That was then. This is now. If you don’t want to climb the stairs, don’t bother, missy.’

  Pride kept Nora hostage in the loft. She knew they all watched her. From Fern right down to Tallulah, the family was a network of loving spies. Donna had suspected a tumble in the bathroom; Ollie reported his great-aunt’s eye doing its dance. Tallulah was the most vigilant; she counted four slurred words in Nora’s rant about sex scenes in BBC costume dramas.

  ‘Besides,’ said Nora, ‘there’s nowhere for me to sleep down here. The downstairs loo isn’t big enough for me to use as a bathroom. It wouldn’t work.’

  ‘What if I make it work?’

  ‘No, madam,’ said Nora, with an air of finality.

  ‘This ain’t over, old woman.’

  ‘I saw one last night,’ said Nora, looking up at the ceiling.

  ‘One what?’ Fern checked the Great British Bake Off wall calendar. ‘Don’t forget we have a meeting with your MDT later. They’ll assess you to see if we can start you on amitriptyline for your nerve pain.’

  ‘A willy,’ said Nora.

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘I saw a willy. My first one.’ Nora sighed. ‘Not very well designed, are they?’ She frowned to herself. ‘Certainly not a colour I’d choose for walls.’

  ‘When, where?’ was all Fern managed to say.

  ‘In his car. I asked. He was happy to oblige.’

  ‘I bet he was.’

  ‘I couldn’t stop laughing at first.’

  Poor man, thought Fern. Poor, poor man.

  ‘But then I popped on my glasses, and now I know my way around one.’

  Fern went pale. Later I’ll Google ‘how to rinse your brain’.

  As Nora ambled off, presumably to ponder penises, Fern dialled Adam’s number. The God that Nora was so chummy with presumably accepted her new hobby; He was more easy-going than Nora made out. ‘Adam, hi, do you have a minute?’ Fern started all their phone conversations this way, as if she was intruding.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘About the shed. Your studio.’

  ‘Yes?’

  In the background, a shouted ‘Who is it?’; Penny marking her territory.

  ‘Only Fern,’ said Adam.

  Only. ‘I was wondering, will you use it again?’

  Adam paused. ‘That’s like saying – well, it’s putting me on the spot.’

  Fern knew what he meant; That’s like saying, am I ever coming home again. Was ‘home’ the right word? It was one of Fern’s favourite words.

  Adam was puzzled. ‘Why now, all of a sudden?’

  ‘We have to face facts. Nora won’t be able to tackle the stairs much longer. It was fine when she was a visitor, but now she’ll be with us until, well, the end . . .’ That was one of Fern’s least favourite words. ‘The shed could be converted into an annexe. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to.’

  ‘It makes sense.’ Adam sighed. ‘I’ll get a man in to move my desk and my gear. Penny can find me a studio somewhere local.’

  Drumming her fingers, Fern endured a conversation between Adam and Penny she could only half hear, which ended with Adam returning to say, ‘Pen’s heard of this brilliant warehouse space on Manor Road. Creative. Lively. She’ll get me in there.’

  ‘No,’ said Fern, far too quickly. ‘That place is full of, um, bats. And spiders.’

  ‘Bats?’

  ‘Poisonous bats. Dry rot. It’s haunted.’ By my toyboy.

  ‘Er . . . OK. Maybe not there.’

  Feeling odd about evicting Adam – have I pushed him out of the nest for a second time? – Fern found herself rooting out the box of letters as they both thrashed out the practicalities of converting the shed. ‘Adam, listen to this,’ she said impulsively. The letter on the top of the pile was strangely appropriate.

  MYSTIC ADAM LOOKS INTO THE FUTURE

  I’ve been studying my tarot cards. I made them myself so I’m not sure how accurate they are. CUE SPOOKY MUSIC. Here is how your future pans out.

  * You’ll get back with Adam who isn’t all that great but is frankly your best bet. He loves you. A lot. More than he could love anybody else.

  * Adam will become a famous singer-songwriter. He will ignore the crazed fans who jump on his limo. He will only have eyes (and all other bits) for you.

  * You will marry Adam.

  * You and Adam will buy a big house.

  * You will have a chain
of beauty salons called ‘Spotz Begone’.

  * Babies will happen. Just one, or enough for a football team and no I’m not being sexist, girls play football too. So! Ha! YOU’RE being sexist.

  * I will love you forever.

  * You will live happily ever after.

  ‘Your tarot cards were right about some of it,’ said Fern. ‘But ‘Spotz Begone’?’

  ‘It’s catchy.’ Adam’s laugh was wistful. ‘Listening to that is like meeting your younger self. I was determined to get you back, wasn’t I?’

  ‘It worked. Up to a point. The last two prophecies didn’t really pan out.’

  Adam’s voice was quiet; Fern imagined Penny loitering just within earshot, pretending to do something. ‘I’ve never said I don’t love you, Fern. You’ve never said that to me.’ He hesitated. ‘Or have you?’

  ‘Love didn’t seem to be enough,’ said Fern.

  They were silent until Adam said, ‘I’ll get back to you about the shed.’

  Banging around the house like the ball in a pinball machine, Tallulah finally located Fern out in the recording studio. ‘Guess what?’ She threw down her school bag.

  ‘You’re getting married.’ Fern was gathering the last of her daughter’s forgotten patients, all now ex-insects, into a black bin bag.

  ‘I’m going to make sure a million more girls have an education.’

  ‘Single-handedly?’

  Tallulah looked pityingly at her stupid mother. ‘My class is raising money for a charity in Tanzania. They build schools for girls. Just girls. Because girls have a terrible time of it, Mum.’

  As Fern tidied and sorted the airless, underused room, Tallulah reeled off the challenges facing her counterparts abroad. ‘If they go to school they’re less likely to die of AIDS and they can get jobs and they can be independent. Like me. Have we got any Cheese Strings?’

  Glad to see Tallulah so animated, Fern asked, ‘Who’s involved?’

  ‘Oh, Maya and Georgia and Lily and Millie and Bronwyn and Eva and Yasmin and Tess and Lauren.’

  The old crowd. So there’d been a thaw in playground relations. Fern breathed a sigh of relief; eight-year-old girls were harder to handle than the EU when it came to policy change. ‘How about Carey?’