by Isabel Wolff
‘Yes, but at least now, you know,’ she said philosophically as we turned into Princess Road. This was true. How did Emily Dickinson put it? Oh yes: ‘To know the worst leaves no dread more.’ And that image of Joe was the worst. It was seared into my memory as if stamped there by a flaming brand. I pressed my mental rewind and masochistically played the scene through again. Frame 1: Joe stands there, with Unknown Girl. Frame 2: He takes UG’s arm. Frame 3: UG smiles up at him. Frame 4: They pose for the waiting cameras. Frame 5: God, I hate this frame – Joe and UG exchange a long, lingering kiss. Frame 6: They walk into the theatre, arm in arm. And cut. I had flown six thousand miles to look for Joe, and that was how I’d found him.
‘Mummy’s home!’ Amber called out as she turned the key in the lock. ‘My God!’ she said, as Perdita came swaying towards her. ‘She’s doubled in size!’
This was true. Perdita’s pregnancy had progressed apace. She looked as though she’d swallowed a large rabbit.
‘Mummy’s home now,’ said Amber again as she bent down to stroke the cat. But where was my Mummy? This was odd.
‘Mum?’ I called as we took off our coats. There was no reply. The sitting room was empty. I went into the kitchen. And there she was, outside, hunched over the garden table.
‘Mum, what’s the matter?’
‘Oh, hello, darling.’ Her face shone with false brightness though I saw her surreptitiously mop her eyes. ‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ she said in a voice she was struggling to control. The cat’s fine,’ she said. ‘Pedro’s fine. Everything’s just …fine.’ She made as if to blow her nose, but burst into fresh tears instead.
‘Mum, what is it?’
‘I’m afraid something awful’s happened,’ she said with a teary gasp.
‘What?’
‘Something terrible.’ She tucked a lock of silvery hair behind her ear.
‘Tell me.’
‘Things are never going to be the same again.’
‘Why? What’s happened? And then I knew. It was Dad. Dad had left her. He’d been warning her for months, and she’d ignored him. And now he’d finally gone off. He’d gone off with another woman.
‘It’s Dad, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘This is about Dad, isn’t it?’
‘No! No, it’s not about him. It’s …this!’ Another sob escaped her as she pointed to the front page of the Evening Standard.
‘RADIO STAR’S MUM IN CHARITY SCANDAL!’ trumpeted the headline. ‘PROBE INTO MISSING FUNDS!’ I looked, aghast, at Mum, and then I rapidly scanned the first two paragraphs:
Dympna Malone, mother of London FM’s star presenter, Minty Malone, is being investigated following allegations that she embezzled thousands of pounds from the international relief organisation, Camfam. Mrs Malone, a familiar figure on the London fund-raising circuit, has been dismissed as a fund-raiser, pending an enquiry by the Charity Commissioners. Criminal charges may be preferred …
‘Mum,’ I breathed, ‘were you stealing?’ I was shocked to my core. I was also shocked at finding myself described as a ‘star presenter’. ‘Did you steal this money?’ I asked again.
‘Of course I didn’t,’ she said indignantly.
‘Thank God for that.’
‘It was a grey area.’
‘A grey area?’ Hadn’t I heard that somewhere before? ‘Mummy, theft is theft.’
‘It wasn’t really theft,’ she said carefully. ‘It was …redistribution, that’s all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, Camfam’s got so much money – millions and millions. People are always giving to Camfam. But three months ago I got involved with the Canine Prosthetics Association.’
‘The what?’
‘The CPA,’ she explained. ‘They make artificial limbs for dogs. And they’ve hardly got any money at all. So I decided to give what I’d raised for Camfam to them instead.’
‘Ah. How much?’
‘Only five thousand pounds.’
‘How did you raise it?’
‘Bring-and-buys, car boot sales – the usual. But instead of sending the money to Camfam I put it in my own account instead. I didn’t keep it though,’ she went on emphatically. ‘I paid it straight out again to the CPA.’
‘Oh God.’
‘But, Minty, these poor little dogs on three legs, it’s heartbreaking to see them. I just felt so sorry for them. And I’ve never done anything like this before, and I didn’t think anybody would mind. But now they’re making this awful fuss!’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Camfam have banned me, and I might …I might …’ she put her hand to her eyes. ‘I might end up going to jail!’ This was terrible. Terrible.
‘Does Dad know?’
‘Everyone knows,’ she said dismally.
I was surprised by how sanguine about it Dad was when I phoned him later. He sounded quite calm and he said he doubted that she’d get a prison sentence.
‘It’ll probably be a big fine,’ he said, ‘as she didn’t keep the money herself. She still can’t quite see that she did anything wrong.’
On my first day back to work, everyone was very tactful. They all asked me if I’d enjoyed LA, but no one mentioned Mum. And this despite the fact that it had been picked up by all the papers. Eventually, I brought up the subject myself at the morning meeting, so that I could tell them the truth. Because I’d hate anyone to think that my mother had taken the money for herself.
‘Still, I suppose it’s all publicity for the station,’ I concluded with a mirthless laugh.
But the whole thing was dreadful. It was really worrying. And on top of the shock of seeing Joe with his new woman, and chronic jet-lag – I was having trouble sleeping at night. So at three o’clock this morning I turned on my bedside radio and heard a familiar voice:
‘That weally is cwap!’ I heard Melinda say to one of her late-night nutters. ‘I mean, people go on and on about dolphins,’ she said. ‘But what about the tuna?’
‘What about the tuna?’ said the caller in a puzzled tone.
‘Well, they get eaten, just because they’re not cute-looking with smiley faces and big foreheads. But who wowwies about that?’ she exclaimed. I groaned and buried my face in my pillow. A few minutes later she had taken a call about wheelchair access on London’s buses.
‘I think it’s widiculous that all the buses have got to be fitted with wheelchair-fwiendly doors,’ she said.
‘Why is it ridiculous?’ asked her guest.
‘Because disabled people don’t use buses – evewyone knows that. I mean, when was the last time you saw someone in a wheelchair getting on a bus?’
And she was so rude to her guests! It was unbelievable. If they disagreed with her, they just got abuse.
‘Oh, why don’t you give your tonsils a holiday!’ I heard her say to Kevin from Forest Hill. ‘Wind your neck in!’ she snapped at Bill from Beckenham. Thank God the audience was so small, I thought as I finally drifted off to sleep, just a few thousand insomniacs and eccentrics and spaced-out kids returning from raves.
The next few days were tense, as we waited to see whether Camfam would press charges. Mum’s bank account was investigated by all her other charities to make sure that she hadn’t ‘redistributed’ their money too. The whole thing was hideous. Added to which, Perdita now looked fit to explode. Her distended belly swayed from side to side like a bag and she could hardly drag herself around. We’d prepared a birthing suite for her, in the form of a large cardboard box which we’d lined with kitchen paper and placed in a nook on the landing. And two days went by. Then three. And still she showed no sign of parturiting. The tension was terrible. Then, on the fourth day, I came back from work to find Amber in a complete state.
‘I think she’s going into labour,’ she said.
‘Miaaaooooow!!!!!’ said Perdita. She was making such a din. She wouldn’t sit still, she couldn’t bear to be left alone, and she just kept mewing and screaming at us.
‘MIAOOOWWWWW!!!!’ She was almost hysterical. This wasn’t quite what we’d expected.
‘I thought Laurie said she’d just slope off somewhere and quietly pop the kittens out.’
‘No. I’ve just phoned him,’ Amber replied. ‘He thinks she might want us to be midwives, because maiden queens are sometimes nervous.’
And so we both sat there, and stroked her, as the long process began.
‘MIAOOOWWWWW!’ she cried again, louder now.
‘I wonder how long it’ll take?’ said Amber.
‘A couple of hours, I guess.’
We watched a portable telly to pass the time while we waited. First we watched Blue Peter, then the Six O’Clock News. And then we turned over to Coronation Street and watched that too. After that we watched Brookside and then the National Lottery Live. And still there was no sign. So we sat through the Nine O’Clock News and X-Files, and still nothing had happened. But by the time the credits were rolling on Newsnight, Perdita was having major contractions. One minute she would be lying there, perfectly happily, and the next minute her swollen little body had gone into spasm. And in between these alarming convulsions she was purring like a lawnmower, which surprised us.
By midnight her contractions were much closer together. Every time one came she would open her mouth, go rigid with pain, and emit an eerie, silent scream. It was frightening to see the unstoppable forces of nature take hold. And if either Amber or I moved a muscle, Perdita would get in a panic and cry. By two in the morning she was lying, exhausted, on her side, panting, her little pink tongue hanging out.
‘She’s ready to conk out and she hasn’t even given birth yet,’ said Amber desperately.
‘Perhaps we should play her some music,’ I said. So I turned on the radio. And there was Melinda. We listened for a minute or two, transfixed. If incompetence had been her trade mark before, now it was simple abuse.
‘– why don’t you hang up, you borwing old fart!’
‘– give your tongue a west!’
‘– get off the line, you sadfuck!’
‘– put your teeth in, Gwandpa!’
‘Why is she so rude?’ said Amber, aghast.
‘I guess it’s because she hates doing the night shift,’ I replied. ‘She wishes she was still presenting Capitalise, so she takes her aggro out on her listeners.’
‘She’ll be lucky if she’s not reported to the Broadcasting Standards people,’ Amber said.
‘And now a commercial bweak,’ we heard Melinda say.
‘Landscape gardening is an art. Why not consult Easiplant? We’re experts in this field …’
I switched the radio off. And by now it was three a.m. and still Perdita hadn’t given birth. Then, suddenly, we saw something. A little bubble appeared, and then something white, and a tiny damp furry thing like a drowned mouse slithered out on to the newspaper. Perdita whipped round, bit through its umbilicus and began to lick the new-born kitten with her rasping tongue.
‘It was the tortoiseshell at number 31,’ I said confidently as tigery stripes were revealed.
‘Thank God it wasn’t that ginger one,’ said Amber, with a smile of relief. And suddenly the kitten stretched its front paws, no bigger than paperclips, and groped its way blindly forward.
‘Wow!’ said Amber, as it found a nipple and began to suck. Perdita was purring, and mewing, and then she contracted again, and within minutes another kitten slipped out in its sac and was vigorously cleaned up as it latched on.
‘Twins!’ I said. And then we heard this odd, crunching sound.
‘Oh look!’ said Amber rapturously. ‘She’s eating her after-birth! Isn’t that lovely, Minty!’
‘Suppose so,’ I said, queasily.
‘Clever Mother Nature,’ Amber crooned as Perdita chomped on her placenta. ‘It’s stuffed with vitamins, you know.’
This was amazing: that someone so repulsed by human childbirth could take to feline obstetrics with such aplomb! The kittens squeaked like toy rats as Perdita licked their wobbly little bodies and gently batted them with her front paws to make them feed. And she was purring and purring, and then her body tensed again.
‘Three!’ we said two minutes later.
‘Triplets will be hard work for her,’ said Amber. ‘She’ll have to have help.’
That seemed to be it. Twenty minutes went by and she had three damp kittens swarming blindly over her tummy – they looked as though they were doing breast-stroke through her fur. And we were just half-covering the box with a blanket so that it would be nice and dark and calm, when something happened. She contracted again and a fourth kitten slithered out. This one was black, unlike its siblings, and smaller. And it didn’t move in a normal way. Its tiny limbs flailed discoordinatedly, and it’s head lolled wildly about. Perdita sniffed it, but she didn’t lick it. In fact, she ignored it completely. So we dabbed off the membrane with cotton wool, and nudged it towards her, but she treated it as though it wasn’t there.
‘Perdita, will you please look after your fourth baby,’ said Amber, slightly crossly. And she pushed the kitten towards her again, but to no avail. By now, half an hour had passed and the little black one still hadn’t fed. And despite Amber’s efforts to make Perdita attend to it, Perdita didn’t want to know. The kitten was just lying, stiffly, on the newspaper, still damp, while its three siblings sucked for all they were worth. It mewed constantly, as though in pain, and its tiny chest heaved fitfully up and down. Every time we placed it on one of Perdita’s nipples, it fell off, as though it had no strength.
‘It’s going to die,’ said Amber quietly. ‘Minty,’ she said, and she was in tears now, ‘I think this one’s going to die.’ It certainly looked very sick. It was just lying still now, panting pathetically. There was clearly something seriously wrong.
‘What shall we do?’ said Amber as she tried, yet again, to make Perdita feed it.
‘I don’t know,’ I said with a sigh. I flicked quickly through her cat book, but there was nothing on sick new-born kittens.
‘I’m going to ring Laurie,’ Amber announced. I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to four. ‘I’m going to ring him,’ she said again. And she went into the hall and dialled. After a few seconds, I heard her speak. She was describing the kitten to him, and its symptoms, and telling him that it was lying very still in a corner of the box. Her voice was breaking and Laurie was obviously telling her to keep calm, and advising her on what to do.
‘What did he say?’ I asked.
‘He’s going to come round.’
‘But he’s got an exam today.’ She looked at me. ‘Yes – I know. He told me we should rub it very gently as that helps the circulation.’
So that’s what we did, in turns, until we heard Laurie’s knock on the door. He was wearing jeans and his pyjama shirt. His hair was standing up, from sleep. He examined the kitten, and tried to get Perdita to feed it, but she remained wilfully oblivious to its existence. Its breathing was very quick and shallow now.
Laurie sighed and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing to be done.’
‘What do you mean, nothing?’ said Amber.
‘This is nature’s way,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Animals are ruthless. When they detect something wrong with one of their litter, they just ignore it and let it die.’
‘It’s going to die,’ said Amber miserably.
‘If I could do anything, I would. But I can’t,’ said Laurie. ‘It’s clearly very sick, so I’m afraid you’ll just have to let nature take its course.’
Amber was in floods by now, and I was crying too. And you might say, well, it was just a kitten – how could they be so soft? But it was terrible to sit there, unable to help, while its little life ebbed away.
After Laurie let himself out, we sat up for about an hour longer. By now it was six o’clock. The kitten’s breathing was ever more shallow, and it no longer made any sound. So we drew the blanket half over the box and wearily went to bed.
>
‘Do you want me to bury it?’ I said as we climbed the stairs. Amber just nodded and sniffed.
I awoke three hours later, with a feeling of dread. I had swung my legs out of bed, and was steeling myself to go and look in the box, when I heard Amber cry out.
‘IT’S ALIVE!!!’ she yelled. I heard her run upstairs and then she threw open my door. ‘Minty, the kitten’s alive! It didn’t die!’
I rushed downstairs and there it was, latched on like the others, Perdita blithely feeding it as though nothing had ever been amiss.
‘I don’t understand it,’ I said. I was now crying too. ‘It’s wonderful, but I just don’t understand.’
‘It’s a miracle, Minty,’ said Amber ecstatically. ‘That’s what it is, a miracle!’ She was in raptures. She was laughing and crying, and she went straight to the phone, then stopped herself.
‘I can’t ring Laurie!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s sitting an exam.’
‘Leave him a message then.’
‘Laurie,’ I heard her say, ‘it’s Amber. Thank you so much for coming last night. I’m very pleased to say your diagnosis was wrong. The kitten is alive and well! It’s feeding! It’s a miracle. I don’t know how it happened, but it’s OK now. It’s been resurrected. So we’re going to call it JESUS!’
‘Are we?’ I said, slightly horrified, as she put the phone down.
‘Yes. It was raised from the dead.’
‘Can’t you call it Phoenix, or Lazarus? I think we might offend a few people.’
‘No. We’re going to call it Jesus,’ she said with a mad laugh – she was beside herself with joy. And then she made another call, from which I deduced she was ringing the local paper.
‘Hello,’ she said, ‘is that the newsdesk? This is Amber Dane and I want to tell you the good news about Jesus. Jesus lives!’ she added, ecstatically. ‘Jesus has risen and oh …oh, really? Well, I just thought, you know, local interest and all that. A nice little animal story …OK. You’re full up this week …What? Really? …Oh, I see …Gosh! Well, thanks. Goodbye.’ And then she came into the kitchen where I was making tea. ‘They said they don’t want to know about Jesus.’