by Lesley Lokko
‘Er, no. I don’t suppose you are.’ The doctor was the one to drop his eyes.
‘I see.’ The voice on the other end of the telephone might have been discussing the weather, or a sudden drop in share prices, or a friend’s performance on the green. Anything, in fact, other than the real reason she’d called.
‘So what do you want?’ His voice was clipped.
Lyudmila’s hand gripped the receiver tightly. ‘Money,’ she said slowly. ‘Money for baby.’
There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘Fine. But just for the child. Not for you.’
‘Okay.’ She let out a breath. Chelovek – kuznets svoego schastya. You make the bed you lie in. She could almost hear her mother’s voice. Well, she’d certainly made the bed – countless times. And yes, it was now hers to lie in. Hers and her baby’s. He would have no part in it. He’d made that perfectly clear. ‘Okay,’ she said again, slowly. ‘Money for baby. Is okay.’
‘The solicitors will contact you.’ And that was it. The line went dead. She put the receiver down and sat there for a few minutes, her hand slowly going round in circles over her swollen belly.
PART THREE
BEGINNINGS
‘The beginning is the most important part of the work.’
Plato
27
1997
TASH
Cavezzana, Italy
Somewhere up there in the corner of the vast panorama that was the sky, a ghostly moon hung, pale and translucent, waiting impatiently for evening and the inevitable dying of the light. It was June and the late-afternoon sun had retained its lush fullness of warmth without tipping over into humid slackness. Down there in the valley away from the house, Tash stood ankle-deep in the cool river, poking around her bare feet with a stick. There were probably fish darting about in the shallows, and worms and algae and all sorts of other creatures she couldn’t name but for once she didn’t care. She was enveloped in a shimmering shawl of green, the branches of the trees around her all dipping towards the stream. The wind moved gently, stirring the leaves. Up there on the terrace, out of sight but not out of sound, were the various members of the Harburg family, who came to the beautiful old mill house in Cavezzana every summer.
It wasn’t the first time she’d been invited – every year Rebecca begged her to come – but it was the first time she’d actually been able to come. Somehow, from some source Tash didn’t care to know about, Lyudmila had produced the necessary wad of cash that made the trip not only possible, but also enjoyable. She and Tash had spent an unusual and unusually exciting few days shopping for new clothes and shoes – the sort of stuff Lyudmila somehow always managed to buy for herself but never for Tash. They’d gone to Selfridges on a Thursday morning and had coffee and a croissant in the cafe on the ground floor before going up the escalators to the warehouse of clothing that was the women’s department, where Lyudmila was evidently known, if not exactly appreciated. She was clearly the sort of customer who demanded lots of attention but spent very little. There was a hint of a sneer in the eyes of the various snobbish sales assistants whom she summoned every other minute, but Tash didn’t care. That morning she discovered that whilst she didn’t have the kind of face that would launch a new outfit never mind a thousand ships, she did have the rangy, loose-limbed body that was suddenly in vogue. ‘You’re practically as tall as Stella,’ one of the girls cooed, standing behind Tash in the mirror. Tash resisted the temptation to smirk.
‘How much is jeans?’ Lyudmila snapped. She wasn’t used to her daughter receiving more attention than her.
‘Expensive, I’m afraid.’
‘Ma,’ Tash hissed, squinting at the sales tag. ‘You can’t possibly spend that sort of money on jeans.’
‘Is okay. Is investment. Maybe you gonna find khoroshego mal’chika?’ Lyudmila lapsed into Russian. Tash rolled her eyes. A nice boy? Fat chance, even if she were looking.
‘Ma,’ she began, but Lyudmila had already turned back to the snooty sales assistant.
‘I take one pair white, one pair blue. And shoes.’
Half an hour later, mother and daughter stepped through the revolving door with more bright yellow bags than Tash had ever seen in one go and flagged down a cab.
Sitting beside Lyudmila on the way back to their tiny flat, Tash experienced a desperate, almost crippling surge of envy. She longed to be rich. Properly rich. Like Rebecca and Annick. Although her school fees at St Benedict’s had been paid for by the Bryce-Brudenell family, it had long been understood that once Tash had finished her A-levels that would be the end of it. There would be no further remittances from the Mortimer & McKenzie offices on George Street, Edinburgh, whose cheque sailed through the post box on the first of every month and had done since she was born. Whatever ‘arrangement’ Lyudmila had come to with the father of her as-yet-unborn child, eighteen years of support was as far as it would go. University was out of the question. Lyudmila, whose own schooling had ended abruptly after a high-school volleyball tournament, couldn’t see the point. She was desperate for Tash to put her expensive education to good and proper use and go out and get a job. But she hadn’t reckoned on Tash’s stubborn ambition. Rebecca and Annick were going to university – why shouldn’t she?
After a long, argument-filled summer, Tash finally got her way. She continued to live at home and took the bus every morning to the LSE. Lyudmila thought she was crazy. What the hell was she going to do with a BA (Hons) in economics? The best way to study economics, Lyudmila declared irritably, was to go to work. Tash thought otherwise. She got a grant easily enough – Lyudmila’s official earnings amounted to almost nothing – and she knew she’d have to find a job whilst she studied, but she wasn’t afraid of having to work hard – she’d done that most of her life. The important thing was not to be left behind. Annick had chosen law and Rebecca art history, and despite their obvious advantages, Tash had always managed to keep up her end of things – that wasn’t about to change now. In September, along with the others, she duly began her degree course, full of trepidation but determined to do her best.
Now, three long, hard years later, wearing the short white denim skirt they’d bought that day at Selfridges, she looked down at her bare feet in the water and knew she’d made the right decision.
From the terrace beyond the trees came a sudden burst of laughter. The guests were sitting under a bowery of young, translucent vines at the cloth-covered table now heavy under the weight of dishes. In addition to the three girls, there was Rebecca’s mother and two aunts, three cousins of similar age, an uncle, and a great-uncle who’d come over from Israel, hard of hearing, but who sat amongst them with a beatific, contented smile. The mill house was at the end of a narrow, winding road that led from the town of Pontremoli up into the hills and then plunged down again into a steep, wooded valley. Sitting in the back seat of the car that had come to Genoa to pick the three girls up, Tash thought she’d never seen anything quite so beautiful as the Tuscan countryside in early summer. Rebecca’s father had bought the place several years before, another holiday home in addition to their place in the South of France, their Hampstead home, the flat in Bloomsbury where Rebecca had spent her university years and their Tel Aviv home . . . the Harburgs’ wealth was almost inconceivable. When they rounded the last bend and drove over a narrow, rickety bridge suspended over a rocky gorge, she had to bite down on her tongue to stop herself from squealing out loud. The mill house spread itself over three levels, all the way down to the azure pool at the rear of the buildings, away from any prying eyes. As far as the eye could see were steep wooded hills with their small patches of clearing; tall, narrow, red-roofed houses clustered together under a thick canopy of vine leaves and grey-green olive trees, small vegetable plots appearing like a neat chequerboard of colour in an otherwise lush, green landscape. The sky was a deep, clear blue, misted over here and there by faint wisps of cloud. Tash got out of the car and stood in the driveway, her nostrils prickling pleasurably with the scent of
unfamiliar flowers, gazing out on a day without landmarks other than the anticipation of an afternoon at the pool.
‘Come on, dozy,’ Rebecca giggled at her, leading the way. ‘I’ll show you to your rooms.’
‘But . . . what about our bags?’ Tash roused herself to ask.
‘Oh, don’t worry . . . Stefano’ll bring them up. He knows where everyone is.’
Tash glanced at Stefano, who was already busy directing two other young lads with the mountain of luggage that had come with the various guests who’d just arrived. He was a pleasant-looking man in his late twenties, she guessed, with limited English but a ready smile. He’d already noticed Annick in that way that all men noticed Annick – staring at her for a fraction longer than necessary, eyes locked on her when speaking to others . . . Annick had that effect on everyone, not just men. She’d been an outrageously pretty teenager; now, at twenty-one, she’d grown into the promise of her mother’s beauty, coupled with her father’s dark colouring. Masses of light brown, tightly curled hair, hazel-green eyes, clear coffee-toned skin without a single blemish, a figure to die for . . . life, Tash reflected to herself as she followed Rebecca under the stone archway and into the main house, was generally unfair.
She gave the water another vigorous poke. It was their fourth day of a fortnight’s stay – ten days to go until they returned to London. Someone had asked her the night before, ‘And what do you plan to do with yourself when you get back?’ She’d been unable to answer. A degree in economics seemed about as useful to someone in her circumstances as a degree in geography. Useless, in other words. ‘Get a job’ seemed to be the correct – and only – answer, but even then . . . what sort of job?
And that, mused Tash, flinging the stick onto the opposite bank, was the difference between her and her two best friends. Wealth was nothing other than freedom: freedom to choose, freedom to think, freedom to do whatever the hell you liked. Well, there were no such freedoms for her. She had to find a job, and quickly, too. Lyudmila had been dropping hints like boulders – it was time for her to either move out or start contributing in a more meaningful way to the family economy. She’d been indulged for long enough.
‘Tash? Tash?’ Someone was calling her. It was Annick. She could see her curly head bobbing above the geraniums that lined the terrace edge. ‘Where are you? It’s lunchtime.’
‘Coming,’ Tash yelled, pulling her feet out of the water with a ‘plop’. She scrambled onto the bank and picked up her plimsolls. She walked back up the short track to the house, the voices from the terrace becoming stronger and louder as she went.
As usual, a vigorous discussion was underway. The Harburgs loved to argue. No meal was complete without raised voices, flashes of wit and laughter, complaints from those members who were either hard of hearing or who knew too little to join in. In contrast, mealtimes with Lyudmila, when they occurred, were usually silent affairs, Lyudmila’s full concentration spent on making sure she didn’t overeat. Tash usually had her nose in a book – when they did speak, it was usually only to ask for something. Pass me the butter. Where’s the salt? Here, it was different.
—What time did he say they’d be open? I was there yesterday – no one, not a soul! Eleven o’clock in the morning. No wonder you can’t get anything done in this country. One of the aunts pulling a face.
—Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Embeth. It’s never going to happen. Never.
—Don’t listen to him. That’s what they said in ’39, remember? Why, I still recall . . .
—Who’s asking you? The scraping of a chair as someone moved back from the table.
—Don’t start all that again.
‘Oh, there you are! Rebecca, look who’s here. It’s Tash. Such a lovely name, don’t you think? Come, my dear . . . sit. Sit next to me. That’s it. Now, what can I offer you?’
Great plates of food were carefully passed down the length of the table. Enormous platters of salad, green leaves so light and delicate they appeared almost translucent; purple-red radishes, split open to reveal their creamy, frilled flesh; long languid tongues of grilled sweet peppers, their flesh glistening with oil like sweat. A local woman from one of the neighbouring farms supervised a clutch of young girls bringing food from the kitchen to the table and back again. Down below by the swimming pool, thousands of wasps clustered around the rock-hewn steps, seeking some relief from the heat in the spray that bounced off the boulders. The younger children – Deborah, Rosalie, Gabrielle – rushed back and forth in bare feet, squealing as they narrowly escaped being stung.
Tash helped herself to a simple but delicious dish of tagliatelle, seasoned with olive oil, torn basil leaves and small, bittersweet anchovies, topped with flaked almonds. ‘It’s a speciality of the district,’ Rebecca’s mother explained, making sure everyone had enough food and wine before settling herself at the head of the table. ‘Luisa makes it at least two or three times every summer. Do you like it? Te gusta?’
Tash nodded, swallowing quickly. She marvelled at the way Embeth moved graciously from guest to guest, always making sure everyone was comfortable and provided for, without ever making it seem like a chore. She dutifully divided her attention between her guests but seemed to reserve a special welcome for Tash. There was something in her frank gaze that implied a special awareness. Embeth had only once met Lyudmila, at a school play, some years earlier – an unhappy event that Tash had tried to ban from her memory – but she could see now that Embeth remembered it only too well. She took extra special care to make sure Tash felt at home and Tash was grateful. ‘It’s delicious,’ she mumbled, hoping none of the sauce had escaped her mouth.
‘Some more wine? We’ve got a Sancerre that’s particularly good,’ Embeth motioned to Rebecca to pass the bottle. ‘Or there’s a Pouilly-Fumé somewhere . . . where’s the Chamoux?’ she called down the table. ‘Have we finished it already?’
‘Luisa!’ someone shouted. ‘Può portare un’altra bottiglia, per favore.’
‘Va bene,’ came back the answering shout. Seconds later, one of the girls came running out with another ice-cold bottle. Glasses were quickly topped up, toasts made and the conversations resumed.
Tash finished off her pasta and took another sip of her wine. She leaned back in her seat, aware of the conversations and activities that were taking place around the table, but she also felt oddly separate from them, as if viewing them from afar. Rebecca and Annick were engaged in an earnest discussion with one of the aunts; there was an argument further down about whether or not some cousin or other was going to show up; the old, hard-of-hearing uncle was dozing quietly at the other end. It was a family gathering of the sort she’d never before encountered. She felt a sudden unexpected clawing at her heart and to her horror, felt her eyes growing wide with tears. She blinked quickly, but not before Embeth had caught her eye.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’ Embeth laid a hand on Tash’s forearm.
Tash nodded, unable to speak. She got up, avoiding everyone’s concerned glances and practically ran from the table. Her rubber-soled plimsolls made the searing squeak of fingers dragged across a blackboard. Her chest was rising and falling in an effort to control the tears.
She pushed open the door to the pretty, low-ceilinged bedroom that had been hers for the past four days, closed it firmly behind her and lay down on the bed. She thought of Lyudmila at home in the small flat, carefully cutting out coupons from the free magazines that floated through their letterbox every day. In the large wooden wardrobe that blocked the door to the living room were her clothes, her ‘investments’, as she called them. Lyudmila would sooner go hungry than pass up on a new pair of shoes (in the sales, of course), and she frequently did. For years Tash had wondered at her mother’s priorities – hair, clothes and make-up before everything else, including Tash – all in the vain hope of catching a man who might, just might, provide some of the same comforts. She loved her mother – of course she did – but that afternoon, sitting amongst those rich women of an entirely
different order, she’d experienced an ache of sympathy for Lyudmila that was mixed with shame. Lyudmila longed for the kind of lifestyle that Embeth Harburg had, but she had none of the skills or tools at her disposal that would have secured it. Rebecca’s father had yet to make his appearance; he was in Israel, overseeing one or other of the vast projects that bore the family name, but Tash knew instinctively that he too would be a man of an entirely different disposition from the men whom Lyudmila so desperately entertained.
She rolled over onto her side, hugging the lavender-scented pillow to her chest. Something was being told to her. Part of it had to do with wealth, and the getting and display of it – and her mother’s failure to either grab hold of it or keep it, but there was another side to it that she hadn’t quite grasped. She would never be like Lyudmila – she had neither the looks nor the temperament – but she had none of the advantages that Rebecca did. She didn’t envy Annick either. In many ways, Annick was just as lonely as Tash, perhaps even lonelier. Although her parents were both undeniably rich and glamorous, they were absent. Tash knew all about absence. She’d never met her father and as far as she could work out, Lyudmila had barely known him either, yet his shadow was upon them both. When she was younger, in an attempt to make the situation seem more acceptable, perhaps, Lyudmila would sometimes evoke his presence in a way that Tash hungered for but was never convinced by. Little things, little off-hand, tossed-aside comments – ‘your father likes milk in his tea’, or ‘he doesn’t like marmalade’. Trivial details that, spoken in the present tense, made it seem as though his absence was only temporary. Tash understood her mother was pretending – for one thing, the details never changed or deepened. What Lyudmila knew of Tash’s father was the sort of thing an au pair or a cleaning girl might know; how he took his tea, what sort of scones he liked, whether or not his socks were to be ironed. She sensed it was for her sake, and it hurt her to think her mother thought it necessary.