Bessie was good to the old man: she saw it as useful for her training. Victoria dutifully did what she had to do, emptying the urine flask, and sometimes the commode, but she hated it. Phyllis, who worked long hours, and had four youngsters and the old man to see to, was sometimes able to sit with him a little. He said that no one cared about him.
Phyllis said to Victoria, ‘We need a serious talk, girl, so when will that be?’
It would have to be Sunday, and on Sunday evening when the boys were getting up to mischief outside in the streets, with their gang, Bessie absenting herself behind a shut door, Victoria and Phyllis closed his door on the old man, who complained. ‘But it will be only for a short minute, Grandad,’ Phyllis told him.
Victoria had decided Phyllis was going to ask her to leave: there was not a reason in the world why Victoria should be here at all, adding to an over-burdened woman’s troubles.
‘Make us both a good strong cup of coffee, and then come and sit down,’ said Phyllis. She fitted her bulk into a sofa corner, and put her feet up. She seemed tempted to drop off to sleep then and there.
‘Victoria,’ she said, ‘I know you took that job in such a haste because you wanted to give me something, but it makes me sad, girl, you’re not doing as well for yourself as you could do.’
Behind this directive, which was delivered in the manner of one who has been planning words, in Phyllis’s case for several nights, lay a story which neither Victoria nor Bessie knew anything about. Not even her grandfather knew half of it.
Phyllis Chadwick’s grandparents came to London after the Second World War on the wave of immigrants invited to take on the dirty work which English labourers did not want. They came to streets they had imagined paved with gold and found – but all that has been well documented. A hard life, hard times, and the young couple had two children, one Phyllis’s mother, a lively rebellious girl who got herself pregnant aged fourteen, and had a botched abortion which left her, she was told, sterile, and she embarked on what she thought would be consequence-free sex, but became pregnant again, with Phyllis. Phyllis’s father, for she must have had one, never made himself known, and her mother kept the information to herself. The very young mother and child took shelter with parents who sermonised, but saw them fed. Phyllis did remember her as a shouting screaming mother, in fact a bit demented, who could disappear for days on some binge or spree, returning sullen and silent to lecturing parents, who had had to look after Phyllis. She got herself killed in a brawl. Phyllis was relieved. She was then looked after by her grandfather, who was now there, just behind that door, from where came loud television noises and radio (he often had both on at once) and her grandmother, who was kind but strict, because of the bad example of her mother. ‘You have bad blood,’ she was told, every day of her life. Phyllis worked hard at school, determined never to be drunken or vagrant or brawling, and was ambitious to get her own roof and her own family. She passed exams and then had a brief lapse from grace, as her grandparents saw it, telling her she was going the way of her mother, because she did not stick with one job, but took many, one after the other, from a feeling of power, of freedom. She was a large sensible girl, pretty enough, and worked at check-outs, sold shoes in an Oxford Street shop, served food at the big trade fairs in Earl’s Court, was a waitress in a coffee shop, and was having the time of her life. The money – yes, that was wonderful, it was fairy gold arriving in her hands every week, but what she was earning was the liberty to do as she liked. She stayed in a job just as long as it suited her, and then the best moment of all was the interview for the next: she was liked, chosen out of sometimes dozens of applicants. There was something about her employers trusted. While her grandparents grumbled and prophesied a feckless future and a disgraceful old age, she felt she was dancing on air, owned her self and her future. But then she met her fate, the father of Bessie, though not of the boys, and had to buckle to. She started on the lowest rung of the Social Services ladder, and in due time was given her own flat, this one. Her grandmother, who had in fact been more of a mother, died, and her grandfather became her responsibility. ‘He landed on my poor shoulders like the old man of the sea,’ she would say. But she was not only bound to be grateful, she was fond of the old man who, when you saw him naked, was like a dangling puppet, thin and loose underneath the big head and face that had all his history in it.
‘Victoria, my girl,’ says Phyllis. ‘What are you doing in that nothing job, and you are such a clever girl?’
‘What do you want me to do? What shall I do?’
What Phyllis wanted to say was, For the Lord’s sake! Get yourself out, make use of this time, because you’ll meet a man and then your number’s up. But she didn’t want to wake in Victoria the bad blood that was bound to be lurking there, and in any case the devil lay in wait for women, disguised in smiles and flattery.
She leaned forward, took the two young hands in her own and threw all thought of being a bad influence over her shoulder. ‘You’re only young once,’ she said. ‘You’re pretty, though handsome is as handsome does. You have nothing to weigh you down yet.’ Victoria noted that yet which was a giveaway about how Phyllis Chadwick saw her own life.
‘There are jobs you could do, Victoria. Unless you try for them you’ll never know what you can get.’ She suppressed: if I could get a nice little job, when I wasn’t even pretty, what could you get for yourself, with your face and figure? ‘You don’t want to limit yourself to what you can get around here, in this neighbourhood. You just get yourself down to Oxford Street and Knightsbridge and up to Brent Cross and pick yourself the fanciest there is, and walk in bold as brass and say you want a job.’ She went on to talk of modelling, which is what she would have liked best, but she was not built for it. ‘Why not? You’ve got a well-made body and a face to match.’ The best of the things she had done herself, and the ones beyond her, were being presented to Victoria. Phyllis Chadwick, the descendant of slaves, whose name, Chadwick, had been the slave owner’s, knew that she had been good enough to work in places that wouldn’t have let her parents through the door. All the time she was talking, a little nerve of panic was twitching: am I sending her into danger, am I doing that? But she’s so sensible, so cool, she’ll not come to harm.
She gave Victoria money, told her to go out and buy herself a bit of style but not be too flash.
Victoria took all this in, not least that she had been given a glimpse into her benefactor’s life that she would have to think over.
She fitted herself out, and, taking heart from Phyllis’s homilies, began at the top, in Oxford Street, for she did not yet know anything better and smarter. She worked for a while selling perfume and then, having learned that Oxford Street was not the empyrean, became assistant in a very exclusive shop indeed, but left that, when she became irked by it, for encouraged by Phyllis she was able to acknowledge imperfections even at the top. She hated selling beautiful clothes to women too ugly or too old, clothes that would have looked – did look – better on herself, and she found herself modelling for a photographer, not pornographic, but sexy enough to embarrass her, and then, proving herself as contradictory as Phyllis, who urged her on while counselling caution, she did nude poses for another photographer. All this time she was putting money aside, her nest egg, the entrance fee to her own place, her own, hers.
The nude poses seemed to have as their natural end sex with the photographer, so she left.
The grandfather died. The young ones saw from Phyllis’s grief that this had been much more than just a smelly old half-dead man, with his urine bottle, who had taken up space better used by the living.
Into the room went the two boys, and Phyllis told Bessie and Victoria that she had never in her life before this time had her own room. She was in her own room, and she actually wept tears of gratitude to life, or fate, or God, for it.
Bessie, a good-natured, easy-going young woman, said to Victoria, as they lay in their little room, talking into the dark, that she had thought
the old man, the grandfather, her great-grandfather, a rough type: she had been embarrassed by him. ‘Yes, I was, Victoria, he used to get me really upset by some of the things he said.’
Victoria did not comment. She had a good idea of what raw materials Phyllis had made her life. She could feel for Phyllis in ways that Bessie didn’t. Couldn’t, rather: she had had it easy. She, Victoria, was closer to Phyllis than Bessie was.
Victoria had no idea how Phyllis yearned over her, fretted because of her, was afraid for her. She had lived as Victoria did now, dancing on the edge of danger, and while she urged Victoria on, and triumphed in the young woman’s successes, the sparkling new job, the compliment from an employer, or from a customer, she thought secretly that there is no more dangerous item in the world than a pretty young woman on the loose. Luckily, the older woman thought, when we are girls we don’t know that we are like sticks of dynamite or like fireworks in a box too close to a fire.
Oh, yes, older women understand why some people think young ones should be locked up! Good God, girl, Phyllis Chadwick might think, watching Victoria go off to work, looking a million dollars, you’re a walking catastrophe in the making, though you trip along so meek and mild not looking to right or left, you don’t sway your little hips and come on fast, you wouldn’t let that photographer go too far (Phyllis knew about the first but not the nude-poser), but all the same, girl, you’re playing with fire, and so was I, and I had no idea of what I was like. Sometimes I could shake and shudder at the risks I took.
‘Don’t you worry so much, Ma,’ said Bessie to her mother, after they had watched Victoria go off to work as a croupier in a gambling place. ‘She’s got an old head on her.’
‘I hope she has, my dear,’ and Phyllis thought how odd it was that this daughter of hers, whom of course she loved, since she was her daughter, was far away across a gulf of incomprehension, that generation gap that is the cruellest of all, between parents who have done it the hard way, to win ease and safety for their children, who then have no understanding of what they have been saved from. ‘But Victoria understands me,’ Phyllis thought.
Now Victoria was in a job she liked better than anything so far, a big music shop, in the West End. She had earned more in other places, but this was where she belonged. The music, the people who came in, the other assistants – all perfect, all a pleasure, and she told Phyllis and Bessie that this time she would stick.
One afternoon who should come in but Thomas Staveney: for a moment she again thought she was looking at Edward. She watched him wander about the store, at his ease in it, familiar with everything: he picked up tapes and put them down and finally bought a video of a concert from The Gambia. Then he arrived in front of her, and said, ‘You’re Victoria.’ ‘And you’re Thomas,’ she rejoined smartly. He was eyeing her but not in a way she could object to: of course he must be surprised: she knew what he was remembering. She stood smiling, letting him come to conclusions.
Then he said the last thing she expected: ‘Why don’t you come home with me and have some supper?’
‘I’m not free for another hour.’
‘I’ll come back for you.’ He sloped out. His style was one no one need notice in this place, more Jimmy Dean than Che Guevara; there was a hole at the knee of his jeans, and another in his sweater elbow.
When the two left the store, as it closed, they were an incongruous pair, for she was in a sleek black leather jacket, a black leather skirt, heels like shiny black chopsticks. Her hair was straight now, like black patent leather.
They took a bus, another, and were soon outside that house that had been inhabiting her dreams for ten years.
She was now nineteen, he, seventeen. They knew to the month how old each was. He looked much older, and she did too, a smart young woman, no girl, this.
As he went up the steps she lingered, to grasp the moment. She was here with the tall fair boy she had been dreaming of, yet it was like those dreams where a familiar figure comes towards you, but it is not he, this is a stranger; or with what delight you see across a room your lost sweetheart and she turns her head with a smile you don’t know. This was Thomas, and not Edward, and the theme of deception continued as she tripped fast up the steps to join him at the opening door: the hall which had stayed in her mind as a place of soft colours and lights was smaller, and the spring afternoon sent a cold light where she remembered a warm diffusing glow. She remembered a reddish-rose softness, and here they were, old rugs, on the floor and on the walls, but she could see white threads where the light highlit worn patches. They were shabby. Yes, pretty, she supposed: could not these rich people afford new ones? At once she put the remembered room, unchanged, into another part of her mind, to keep it there safe, and condemned what she saw as an imposter. Now they were in the enormous room she remembered she had been told was a kitchen. It still was – nothing had changed. A child, she had not taken in all the cupboards and the fridge and the stove, which could easily appear in a magazine that endorsed such things, and here was the table, large, yes, as she remembered, and the chairs around it, and the big chair where she had sat on Edward’s knee and he had told her a story.
Thomas had put water into the kettle and switched it on, and reached into a vast refrigerator. He brought out various items which he deposited on the table, and said, ‘But if you’d like something else? I’m making coffee.’
At Phyllis’s, coffee was drunk, often and copiously, so she said, ‘Coffee, please,’ and sat down, since he had not thought to suggest it.
If she could not stop herself sending glances of enquiry, and then confirmation, at him, he could not stop looking at her. She thought he was like someone who had bought something special at the supermarket and was pleased with his buy.
‘Where’s your brother?’ she asked, half afraid to hear what he would say, since the answer was bound to confirm that this was not Edward, nor ever could be.
‘He’s in Sierra Leone, gathering facts’, was the reply, and she could not miss the resentment that was supposed to be concealed by indifference. ‘Gathering facts as usual’ he added. And then, deciding that politeness needed more, ‘He’s a lawyer, these days. He’s with a lawyer’s outfit that gathers facts about poverty – that kind of thing.’
‘And your ma? Does she still live here?’
‘Where else? This is her house. She comes and goes at her own sweet will. But don’t worry, she keeps her distance.’
In this way her suspicion was confirmed that there was something clandestine about this escapade. After all, he was seventeen. He must still be at school somewhere. She was the prize got at the supermarket.
For all of Edward’s tumultuous decade of growing up, Thomas had been the very pattern of a younger brother. He belittled and he jeered and he mocked, while Edward championed this cause or that, filling the house with pamphlets, brochures, appeals and quarrelling with his mother. Yet Jessy supported Edward, on principle, and Thomas might go off with both of them to a concert of musicians from South Africa or Zanzibar. At one of these shows Thomas, aged eleven, fell in love with a black singer and thereafter went to every black concert or dance group that came to London. The secret torments of teenage lust were all directed towards one black charmer after another. He said openly and often that he thought white skins were insipid, and he wished he had been born black. He collected African music from everywhere, and from his room when he was in it came the sounds of drumming and singing, as loud as he could get it, until Edward shouted at him to give it a rest and his mother complained that her sons did nothing by halves. ‘If only I could have had a nice sensible girl,’ she mourned: this was very much the note of the women’s movement of the time.
Thomas had in a thousand fantasies come up those steps with some delectable black star or starlet and when he saw Victoria in the music shop his dreams in one illuminating moment came close and smiled at him.
Victoria asked if he remembered she had slept in his room that long ago night. He did not, but he grasped
at this gift from Fate and said, ‘Would you like to see it?’
Up the stairs they went and into a room no longer like a toy shop, but full of posters of black singers and musicians. Never has an old sweet dream of something unobtainable turned so sharply to say: But I was not that, I was this all the time. She knew all the performers from their recordings, and now she sat on the bed to listen to music from Mozambique, staring around at the posters, while Thomas stared at her.
Victoria was not entirely a virgin, because she had only just escaped from the predatory photographer number two. Thomas was not pristine either, because he had managed to persuade a waitress – black, of course – that he was older than he was. But he was inexperienced enough, and nervous enough of this cool black chick, to delay and put off and then put on another tape, and another, until Victoria got up and said, ‘I think I should be getting home, it’s late.’
The Grandmothers Page 9