by Ruth Hogan
‘What a splendid hound!’ Kitty Muriel enthuses.
I have reluctantly followed Haizum down to the path. Why is it that on the one day I get up and drag on whatever clothes are to hand, eschew even a cursory trace of make-up, and leave my unruly hair to its own devices, I bump into one of the most glamorous women I know? Even Sally’s attire has an air of rakish eccentricity – no evening dress today, but a wonderful wide-brimmed hat with orange flowers and bright pink wellingtons. I used to have what Edward called my own ‘individual’ style. It might not have been to everyone’s taste, but my fashion fusion of vintage and whatever else took my fancy was always memorable. When Gabriel died, no one forced me to wear crape or bombazine, but bothering about what I wore seemed somehow frivolous; ridiculous even. The flamboyance may have faded away, but I normally look presentable. Boring, perhaps – but presentable nonetheless. Today I just look slovenly and unkempt. I am in no fit state to be seen by these two women, whose opinion of me has inexplicably begun to matter so much. But Kitty Muriel’s joie de vivre is hard to resist.
‘Did you see the funeral?’ she asks proudly.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Then you must have seen my gorgeous man. He was the tall, dark, utterly handsome one driving the hearse. I love to see him at work. He looks so capable and dignified. And let’s face it, incredibly sexy. Of course, I never let him see I’m here. I should hate him to be distracted. It would be unforgivably improper of me.’
The wind whips her scarlet dress around her still shapely legs, and buffets her hair which is precariously twisted into her customary chignon, but she is clearly untroubled by the ravages of nature. Rather, I should say she is the type of woman who revels in them. This woman exudes old-school glamour and unashamed joy. If they bottled it, I’d be first in the queue to buy it. Small wonder Elvis is besotted. And so is Haizum, which is most unusual because she doesn’t appear to be concealing anything edible about her person. Nonetheless, he is gazing up at her adoringly as she fondles his ears.
‘Let’s go and visit the new arrival.’ Sally takes my arm and the four of us set off in the direction of the newly occupied grave. We leave the path and wander through the windswept Field of Inebriation. How Kitty Muriel manages such precarious terrain in her high heels is a mystery, but she is as surefooted as Sally is in her wellingtons.
‘I saw you in The Mikado,’ I tell her. ‘You were marvellous!’
Kitty Muriel laughs out loud. ‘Thank you, my dear, but I was also a shameless show-off. You see, my lovely man came to watch, and I was worried that the production was a little sedentary. I didn’t want him to fall asleep.’
‘Well, I’m sure there was no danger of that!’ I reassure her.
‘They’re nice enough people, the Dam Rams, as I call them, but they are awfully conservative. We really need some more new blood like the gorgeous Marcus, who’s recently joined us. He was the Lord High Executioner. He’s very talented, and such a lovely man, too.’
I’m very pleased to hear it, for Edward’s sake. ‘I’ve met him. He’s a friend of a friend.’
‘Well then, you’ll know just how lovely he is.’
For some reason, I’m reassured on Edward’s behalf that Kitty Muriel thinks highly of his new beau.
After walking for a few minutes we see the new grave covered in flowers, directly below us. It is in the old part of the cemetery, and therefore must be a double plot where someone has been reunited with their partner or another member of their family. I reattach Haizum to his lead. I can’t risk him weeing over the fresh flowers. He looks at me with the sulky expression of a small boy who has been called in for his tea before his game of football has finished. The grave is already occupied by Stanley Mortimer Graves (I kid you not), loved and missed by his wife, Sheila, and children, Robert and Tracy. So I’m guessing the new arrival is Sheila, judging by the rather horrid floral tributes spelling ‘Nana’ and ‘Mum’ in unnaturally coloured chrysanthemums. Dad says he wants one placed on the top of his coffin that says ‘Dead’. I think it’s a fabulous idea, but I’m rather afraid that the humour might be lost on some of our relatives, who will just think it’s a spelling mistake.
Kitty Muriel is reading the cards attached to the wreaths and sprays.
‘I always think it’s rather a shame that so many flowers are left to die in a heap on top of the grave,’ she says, cradling a pale pink rose from one of the more tasteful arrangements in the palm of her hand. ‘It’s not as though poor Sheila can even see them.’
‘But they’re not really for Sheila, are they?’ Sally pokes gently at one of the flower words with the tip of her wellington boot. ‘They’re for her family and friends to show everyone how much they loved her.’
Kitty Muriel stands up and takes Sally’s arm again.
‘Well, when I die I want you to raise a toast to me over my grave with a bottle of champagne! Flowers will not be necessary.’
Sally smiles. ‘It’s a deal! And if I go first, I want the same.’
A little later, walking home with Haizum, I think about what Sally said. I took all the flowers from Gabriel’s memorial service home with me and kept them until the blooms shattered and dropped petals everywhere, and the water they stood in turned green and rank. Perhaps now, after all these years, I can stop holding on to his death and drink to his life with champagne.
Chapter 34
ART
Alice and Mattie
‘Incy wincy spider climbed up the water spout . . .’
It was the first song Mattie had learned at nursery. The veins in Alice’s arms looked like spiders’ legs; black and gnarled and spindly. And they throbbed and ached, weary of the poison pumped through them time and again. But today was a good day. She would take no drugs today. Outside the sun was shining. A spring sun, brittle and bright, but not yet ripe enough to bring any real warmth. Alice was still in her nightdress and her feet were bare as she wandered around the garden trying to remember why she was there. A spider’s web caught in the rosemary bush trembled in the morning breeze. Alice crushed some of the eau de nil leaves between her fingers and breathed in their pungent aroma. She would cook something nice for Mattie’s tea as a surprise. He had football this afternoon (at least, she thought it was this afternoon) and would come home ravenous. The spider was frantically repairing the tear in its web that Alice had made when she had plucked the leaves.
‘Incy, wincy spider climbed up the water spout . . .’
Alice couldn’t remember the rest.
Mattie was trying to make the walk home from the bus stop take as long as possible, but he knew that he was only postponing the inevitable. It was like eating all the things you enjoy first from your Christmas dinner; you’d still be left with the Brussels sprouts to eat at the end. He didn’t want to go home at all. It didn’t feel like home any more. He never knew which Alice was going to be waiting when he got there. Some days it was almost like it used to be. His mum would have showered and got dressed properly, and even made some dinner. She would ask him how school had been and then after he’d done his homework they might watch something on TV together. But on other days she seemed almost surprised to see him, as though she’d forgotten she even had a son. The house would be a mess and Mattie would have to get his own tea while his mum lay on the sofa still in her dressing gown, drifting in and out of sleep. In spite of all his teenage bravado with his friends at school, he felt too young to be dealing with this alone.
He didn’t know what to do – whether to do anything. There were no grandparents or aunties and uncles that he could ask. He had almost told his teacher at school. His grades were suffering; nothing too disastrous, but a noticeable decline from last year, and Mrs Jackson had asked him if everything was all right at home. She was about the same age as his mum, but that was all that they had in common. Mrs Jackson was a brisk and confident woman who took no prisoners if anyone crossed her in the classroom. But she also had a genuine vocation for teaching and the welfare of her pupils
was as much her concern as their academic achievements. It had been a carefully casual question, tossed into the conversation when she was going over some classwork with him at her desk, and he had been sorely tempted to confide in her. It would have been such a relief to admit that he was scared. Scared of going home, scared of what he might find, and sometimes even scared of his own mum.
Mattie had told Mrs Jackson that everything was fine. To have said anything else would have felt like a betrayal.
His sports bag was heavy and digging into the scant flesh on his shoulder, but at least today his team had won and he had scored two goals. He wondered if his mum would even remember that he was playing. He pushed open the garden gate, dawdled reluctantly up the path and dumped his bags on the ground to fish his key out of his pocket. As soon as the door was opened, Mattie caught the delicious scent of something cooking and his heart sang. Shepherd’s pie!
Chapter 35
ART
Masha
The snow is falling softly over Paris. The Eiffel Tower is veiled by a cascade of feathery snowflakes, and the va-va-vroom of the city’s traffic is muffled by a sparkling blanket of white. The voices I can hear are muffled too, but I am no longer in Paris. I am in a plastic chair in an overheated, airless room, with green, white and orange wallpaper and a ferociously patterned carpet. I screw my eyes tight shut and try to re-evoke Paris, but the City of Light has vanished into the darkness. I am seated at a blue Formica-topped table, and in front of me is a powder blue plastic plate bearing a pink fondant fancy.
‘She’s not getting down until she’s eaten it.’
It sounds as though the speaker is underwater. I form my mouth into a shape ready for speaking but no words come out. Something is missing. The familiar landscape inside my mouth is flattened, softened, useless. I have no teeth. My gums gibber fruitlessly. I can only manage a few pathetic sucks and gurgles. I make the Elephant Man sound as crisp as a Radio 4 news presenter. I kick the table leg in frustration, and am instantly rewarded with a rap over my bony knuckles with a wooden spoon (the pain of which is slightly tempered by the fact that I notice at this point that I am wearing a pair of bright red patent tango shoes). I pick up the fondant fancy and hold it reverentially in the palm of my hand, studying it closely as though it is a precious treasure, before slowly closing my hand and squeezing tightly until it oozes out between my fingers, a sticky mess of cream and sponge and icing. Once my hand is fully closed, I flick it open, flinging out my arm and sweeping it in a semicircle; a defiant flourish that pebbledashes the walls and furniture with squished cake.
There is a poor soul whose scrawny limbs are folded up into a stained and musty armchair in the corner. He is so decrepit and desiccated by extreme old age that he looks more like a giant grasshopper with dentures than a human specimen. He was doing a convincing impression of a mummified corpse until a splat of cake hit him in the face. His tongue crawls out of his mouth and wriggles down his chin, searching for the cake, like a blind pink slug searching for a succulent lettuce leaf. A trickle of saliva bubbles out of the cracked corner of his mouth and his bony knees begin to jiggle with excitement. On the far side of the room, a fat old woman in a bright blue flowery dress, whose flesh is the colour and consistency of a strawberry blancmange, is sucking splodges of fondant fancy off the wall.
The underwater voice commands the blancmange to stop licking the wallpaper, and as I turn to face the speaker, the woman I see is clearly the less compassionate sister of Nurse Ratched. She lunges down towards me, gripping my frail thighs between her steely fingers and snarls, ‘Bring me the beige tartan slippers!’
I would rather die than surrender my red patent shoes to this execrable nurse. I grab a dessert fork from the table, and with all the strength my rage can muster (which is a fair bit, surprisingly) I plunge it into her sinewy forearm. Now, I appreciate that this would definitely qualify as one of Lady T’s ‘ugly tricks at meals’, but frankly, on this particular occasion, I couldn’t give a flying fork. Her face contorts with shock and pain, and her response is a gratifying, ‘I’m dying . . .’ but the voice is different; sharper, clearer, closer, and the sentence is not finished: ‘of boredom in my own little purgatory of domestic tedium.’
The Happy Endings home disappears like spit down a dentist’s suction tube. I am in my consulting room holding my snow globe, and the dreadful thing is that I have obviously fallen asleep whilst with one of my clients. But the dreadful thing is offset by three splendid other things: 1) I’ve woken up and it was all a ghastly nightmare; 2) The client hasn’t noticed; and 3) She’s my least favourite client, so I wouldn’t have minded much if she had.
Mrs Celine Hazel Bray (aka Saline Nasal Spray) is a slim, blonde, thirty-something with expensive caramel lowlights, a gym-toned body and perfectly veneered teeth. She has a generous and loving husband who works long hours as a neurosurgeon in a city hospital, two perfectly nice little girls in private prep school, a cleaner, an au pair, a gardener, a personal trainer, and far too much time on her perfectly manicured never-seen-a-day’s-work-in-their-lives hands. She also has a psychotherapist. Me. She doesn’t need a psychotherapist. She needs a swift kick up her taut little backside, and today might just be the very day she gets it.
Saline only came to me in the first place because one of the people in her book club had been to see a psychologist and had found it ‘so empowering!’ Saline wanted to combine the drama queen kudos of being ‘in therapy’, with what she perceived to be a trendy new addition to the plethora of requirements essential for her personal maintenance. I think she sees me as some sort of psychological personal stylist, although she completely ignores me, and continues to live her life in her own selfish and superficial fashion. She doesn’t need me, she needs a proper life, with hopes and disappointments, fear and excitement, failures and successes. She needs rough and smooth, ups and downs, light and shade. Instead she is cocooned in safe, expensive, plush, predictable, ‘dry clean only’ taupe. She is not a bad woman, merely a rather self-centred and shallow one who has no idea how lucky she is. She needs to be a proper mother to her little girls instead of hiring an au pair she doesn’t need. Their childhood is more precious than she realises and she is missing most of it.
I put the snow globe down carefully on my desk, turn my chair to face her (it had been sideways on, which may have helped hide the fact that I had dropped off) and surreptitiously wipe my hand across my mouth in case I have dribbled in my sleep. I look her straight in the eyes, and take a deep breath. I probably should have told her this a long time ago, but didn’t have the courage. Now it seems I can’t stop myself.
‘Yes, Celine, you are dying. We are all dying. We shall all end up completely, utterly and absolutely dead. As doornails. But we are not dead yet. Your problem is that you are too lazy, too scared or too stupid to spend the time leading up to your death living. Really living. Do something! Instead of spending every day having your hair done, your nails painted, your teeth fixed, your body trained or your colon irrigated, for heaven’s sake do something. Preferably for someone else – for your lovely little girls, your exhausted husband, the little old lady down the road, or some charity. The clock is ticking, Saline [oops!], and I’m sure you’ll feel so much better when you die – and perhaps, if you’re lucky, even before that – if you haven’t wasted your life being a vain and useless ninny whose sole contribution was to keep handbag designers in Botox and foreign holidays.’
I feel much better already, having got that off my chest. I’m not so sure about Saline though. She is staring at me in amazement.
‘Don’t worry,’ I hear myself say, ‘there’s no charge for today’s session. Although it’s probably the most valuable advice I’ve ever given you.’
Without a word, she picks up her ridiculous but very expensive snakeskin tote bag (that boasts more brass furniture than our front door) and clip-clops out of the room with sparks of indignation flying from her Manolos. Several minutes later there is a tap on the door, and Helen
appears with a tray bearing a cup and saucer of steaming brown tea and a plate of rich tea biscuits. She sets the tray down on my desk as best she can amongst the piles of papers, and looks at me quizzically.
‘I thought you might need this.’
‘You’re an angel.’
‘You know perfectly well that I am no such thing. And neither are you, judging by the mood Saline left in. What on earth did you do to her?’
‘I gave her a swift kick up her personally trained, taut little tush.’
‘Oh well, that’s all right then.’
Helen leaves me to my tea and biscuits. Lady T offers no specific advice about the dunking of biscuits in tea, which I have interpreted as tacit approval. However, I’m not too sure that she would be impressed by my technique. The timing with rich tea biscuits is crucial, and after years of practice I still finish up with half a biscuit sloshing around in the bottom of my cup, which then has to be fished out with a teaspoon.
The intercom on my desk buzzes and Helen’s voice announces the arrival of my next client. A tall, attractive man in his late forties comes in and sets down his bulging black briefcase on the floor. He is slightly overweight, with the dark, glossy eyes of a Labrador, and curly brown hair, neatly cut and greying at the sides. He is immaculately dressed in a dark suit, striped shirt and highly polished black lace-up brogues, and he smells of expensive aftershave and mints. He takes off his jacket and sits down on the squishy sofa. There is a knock at the door and Helen comes in carrying another tray with a large mug of tea and another plate of biscuits. She sets it down on the side table next to the sofa, and the man thanks her in a deep voice that is a potent blend of kind and sexy. Helen flashes him her best smile and closes the door behind her. The man leans forward and undoes the briefcase, from which he removes a rather battered-looking hardback book. He settles back into the sofa, takes a sip of tea and then opens his book and begins to read The House at Pooh Corner by A. A. Milne.