by Maisie Mosco
“But I can’t say there’s much of my family’s genes in you,” her mother replied.
“If you and Dad had had some more children, you might have had that pleasure,” Leona countered.
“Is that a rebuke because you have no brothers or sisters?” Rebecca took off her dark glasses and said without waiting for a reply, “You’d better adjust that parasol, darling, or you’ll go home with a red nose.”
While doing so, Leona said, “I could hardly rebuke you for my being an only child, Mum, when my daughter is, too.”
Rebecca said after a pause, “I imagined that you and Frank wanted more children, but it just didn’t happen –”
“But you never talked to me about it, did you?” Leona cut in. Oh the things that had gone unsaid between Leona and her mother, and this was the least of them.
A recollection rose before her of being advised by her grandmother to make her mum feel part of her own life. It was the day Leona found out that Rebecca was an alcoholic and had gone to unburden her distress to Sarah. Leona would not forget the shock of seeing a bottle of gin hidden behind a pile of sweaters in her mother’s wardrobe, when she was looking for a cardigan.
Rebecca was not at home. Leona had gone to the house to pick up her child whom Bridie’s taking care of allowed her to pursue her career. Bridie, not my mother, she thought now – but when was the beautiful woman I’m looking at ever a real mother to me? It was Bridie, not she, who raised me, and I didn’t stop resenting it until I began pitying her and asking myself why.
Leona had taken Sarah’s advice, tried to make her mum feel needed, found ways of occupying her time so it would not hang so heavily on her hands, and little by little Rebecca had overcome her addiction. Leona’s asking herself the whys and wherefores, though, had reflected badly upon her father…
“Since you didn’t ask me, I didn’t tell you, Mum, that Carla’s being an only child was my decision and Frank went along with it. Our neighbourhood law practice seemed more important than increasing our family and it needed both of us.” Leona smiled wryly. “Twenty years ago we were imbued with an idealism it’s been hard to sustain.”
“And how you can go on working in that district – with what Moss Side now is –!” said Rebecca. “Have there been any repetitions of Frank getting punched up?”
“That sort of thing goes with the territory and, believe it or not, makes our work the more rewarding. Our reputation is such that we’re preferred to black lawyers and that’s rare in the current climate. As for what Moss Side now is – well, it’s just a different kind of ghetto from the one the Sandbergs sprang from.”
“Hardly, darling!”
“What do you mean, ‘hardly’? For those Jews prepared to admit it, it’s a parallel situation, including the poverty and the humiliation. The blacks are struggling for acceptance just like we had to. Uncle David once told me he used to get stones thrown at him on his way home from school, when the family lived in Strangeways, and in a house you and I would call a hovel, may I remind you. He also said he once took Laura to see it, to take her down a peg or two. It’s a pity he didn’t give Shirley the same treatment!”
“Thankfully, those days are over,” said Rebecca while applying Ambre Solaire to her gleaming shoulders.
“But they’re not for the blacks and Asians,” Leona replied, covering her ankles with a towel. It was far too hot to wear socks. “Even for those who’ve achieved material and educational equality,” she went on, “the real struggle is still going on. And by the way, Mum, when are you coming home?”
“I was wondering when you’d get around to asking.”
Again something had gone unsaid: It was why you came, wasn’t it?
Since directness between herself and her mother was on a personal level no more possible now than it had ever been, Leona kept her tone light and answered, “We’ve barely had a minute alone, have we? What with all the socializing!”
Only by pleading a headache had Leona escaped yet another luncheon party given by one of the wealthy widows with whom her aunt passed the time.
All of whom were on the lookout for a man, Leona reflected, casting her mind back to the party given by Auntie Ray’s best friend in a poolside setting similar to that in which Leona and her mum were now lounging…
Exotic described it. Palm trees and luxuriant bushes, the tiles surrounding the pool, as on the patio, pastel pink, the water a mirror for the brilliant, Florida sky, and a buffet resplendent with salads as colourful as the ambience.
Leona’s first impression was that she had never before encountered so youthful a gathering of elderly ladies. Was it the Florida air? No, the answer was a face lift – which her aunt had confessed to when Leona remarked that she hadn’t aged since her last visit to England, years ago.
But it wasn’t just their appearance, Leona had registered. It was something they exuded.
When a man entered the action – Leona could think of no more accurate way of putting it – she had realized what the “something” was. They hadn’t given up hope. And good luck to them!
A lady named Nettie had brought him along and Leona recalled his immediately casting an eye over the buffet.
“Oh my, isn’t that a picture!” the tubby little chap said to the hostess. “Nettie told me there would be a spread, Ruby, but I sure didn’t expect a banquet!”
Nettie patted her blonde coiffure, before linking his arm to establish ownership. “Ruby always uses the best caterer in town, Al. Me, I prefer to prepare the food with my own hands, even if I’m up all night –”
“Which you look like you were,” said Ruby sweetly, “and which caterer but the best would I use? What is money for, like my poor husband used to say.”
“But me, I’m not extravagant,” Nettie informed Al, and Leona wondered if he was making a mental note of that, to file with a list of pros and cons attached to the women available to share his remaining years.
Listening to the exchange between Nettie and Ruby, Leona had noted the competitiveness. But how lovely for the men, so evidently in short supply, she reflected as an elderly gentleman clad in a garish shirt and white trousers, a bright blue peaked cap on his head, arrived alone and was introduced to Leona and her mother.
“If you English ladies ever get to Delaware, be sure to look up my daughter,” he said, removing his cap to mop the sweat off his bald head. “And I have to tell you I am never going to get accustomed to the year-round heat here!”
After he had proudly displayed some snapshots of his daughter and his grandchildren, Leona said, “If the climate doesn’t suit you, Mr. Pitkin, why do you live here?”
“A good question, young lady! But to retire to Florida is what I worked for all my life. And what’s to go home for?” he added with a shrug.
This seemed at odds with his demeanour when he showed the snapshots. And why was Leona’s mum now avoiding her eye? Had Mr. Pitkin taken the words from Rebecca’s mouth? No, the thought from her head, since she would never voice it.
Leona took a cocktail from the tray with which a waiter was circulating and felt like downing it instead of sipping it, such was her hurt.
“Not for me, thank you,” Rebecca said to the waiter.
“With my blood pressure, me neither,” said Mr. Pitkin.
Leona saw him look her mother over and like what he saw. But why wouldn’t he? Rebecca, though she alone among the women here had done nothing to disguise her age, was, with her natural elegance, the most striking female present, from which Leona did not exclude herself and she an attractive redhead still in her forties.
My mother’s simple, beige outfit makes Auntie Ray and her pals look overdressed, thought Leona. And the hostess’ face lift made her something of a travesty, given her dowager’s hump.
“So you and me, we have something in common. Neither of us drinks,” Mr. Pitkin was saying with a smile to Rebecca. “How are you enjoying your vacation?”
“I’ve always been a sun-worshipper, Mr. Pitkin.”
“My elder brother’s name is Joe.”
“And I have a sister named Rebecca! How’s that for coincidence?”
The rapport the two seemed to be establishing impelled Leona to inform Mr. Pitkin – and remind her mother – of her father’s existence.
“My dad loves the sun, too,” she said conversationally, “but he couldn’t come with Mum to visit her sister. He’s a busy doctor.”
Mr Pitkin looked as if he was thinking, Why are the ones I fancy never available? “And I guess your dad is missing your mom,” he said, allowing himself to add, “I sure would if I were him.”
The Mr. Pitkin incident was ten days ago and while Leona was remembering it, her mother had got up to take a swim. Nor had she yet answered the question Leona had come to ask. Instead, she had let it hang in the air and it occurred to Leona that she was perhaps putting off the moment.
Rebecca had swum to the opposite side of the pool and was now seated chatting to some of the women for whom, like Leona’s aunt, it was a facility that went with living in one of these expensive apartments.
How easily my mum has adjusted to this lifestyle, Leona reflected. To the daily dips in the pool, and the non-stop socializing – as if its participants were determined to enjoy every minute of the time left to them – the morning shopping before the day grew too hot, the elaborate luncheons, and in the evenings a game of bridge in someone’s air-conditioned living-room.
Leona had found herself marvelling at the energy Auntie Ray and her friends managed to muster at their age. But was it perhaps the energy of desperation? As though if they let themselves wind down they’d be out of the race against time.
A conclusion that led Leona to wonder if deep inside themselves they truly enjoyed an artificial Indian summer in the autumn of their lives. If most wouldn’t prefer carpet slippers and TV if they had someone with whom to share their lives. As for the dearth of men – well, only one conclusion could be drawn.
Leona didn’t know if Mr. Pitkin’s wife had lived to retire here with him. But his outliving her made him a rare specimen in this setting. What the women in Auntie Ray’s circle were enjoying, if they were, were the fruits of their dead husbands’ lifelong labours. And some had seemed to Leona the sort whose acquisitiveness had spurred on their men to a too-early grave.
In retrospect, that probably included Auntie Ray, whose husband was a lovely man. The kind who did card tricks for kids and gave them sweets when their parents weren’t looking.
Leona could remember too her aunt having three fur coats. And Uncle Murray arriving home from work dead beat, when Leona and her mother were staying with them. Also her being awed by their vast drawing-room and the grand piano that nobody ever played.
Leona’s annual trips to London with her mum had been the highlights of the year. Not just because she was taken by Uncle Murray to see the sights. Those were the only times her mother had seemed relaxed and happy.
Not until she grew older had Leona realized that her mother had never stopped being homesick. Marriage had transplanted Rebecca when she was still a young girl from London to Manchester. Away from her own family and into the midst of a down-to-earth provincial clan, among whom she must have felt swamped, to put it mildly.
But if Dad had loved her, that wouldn’t have mattered, Leona thought now. Mum would eventually have found her niche. Why had Leona always had the feeling that her mother had once loved her father, but had stopped loving him when she realized he didn’t love her?
Could love be switched off? Well, not in Leona’s case or she wouldn’t still be in love with the wrong twin.
She blotted out Henry Moritz’s too-charming smile and replaced it with Frank’s bespectacled countenance. Was she to be cursed with so wayward a heart to the end of her days?
She emerged from her thoughts and saw her aunt approaching, clickety-clack on the high heels she always wore. When I’m her age, I’ll settle for sensible shoes, Leona thought, noting the puffiness of Ray’s ankles.
Ray sat down on the sunbed Rebecca had vacated, lowering herself gingerly and careful not to crease her skirt.
“You missed a lovely party, Leona. And so did your mother on your account, which I perfectly understand, dear. Rebecca wants to make the most of your stay. That nice Mr. Pitkin was there and sent his regards to you both.”
Oh yes? “How long have you lived in Florida, Auntie? I seem to’ve lost count.”
“I guess it has to be going on ten years, dear. And poor Uncle Murray’s been gone for eight of them. If I’d had children and grandchildren, I might not have stayed here. And I can’t tell you how much your mother misses you and her granddaughter, whose wedding it broke my heart not to be at.
“If I hadn’t gone down with that terrible flu bug Ruby’s daughter brought with her from Chicago…”
While her aunt went on bewailing her absence from Carla’s wedding, Leona was thinking, If my mum really missed me she’d come home.
“My sister is looking a lot better than when she arrived,” Ray said.
Leona glanced across the pool to where Rebecca was laughing at whatever the scrawny woman in the red bikini had just said.
“I’d go so far as to say Rebecca is now a different person,” her aunt added. “And I’d like her to stay that way.”
“But she’s my mother and I want her to come home,” Leona replied.
“Oh my goodness hasn’t she told you yet, dear?”
“Told me what?” But Leona had no need to ask.
Chapter 11
On the day Leona returned from Florida, Howard boarded a plane for Munich. Given their missions, it seemed to Marianne as though two more strands, grey in hue, were now woven into the family tapestry.
Leona had called her immediately, to convey her unhappy news. Marianne had just replaced the receiver when Howard rang up from the airport to ask her to stay in close touch with his mother while he was away.
Howard’s conflicting emotions accompanied him on the flight: the filial responsibility he was briefly leaving behind, and the painful pleasure ahead. It was some weeks since he had visited Ben. Could talking to a young child on the phone maintain the bond between them?
Howard doubted it. Like it or not, time and distance could not but diminish his chance of having a real father-son relationship with Ben when he grew up. Love was a vital component of that relationship and Howard’s for Ben was guaranteed until the day he died. But the other way round? Well – would Howard now be letting his sick father metaphorically walk all over him if Harry hadn’t been a pillar of his childhood and youth? And how was Howard to be that to his son with Ben living in Germany and he in England?
Closing his eyes as weariness overcame him, he allowed himself to re-live the nightmare of his father’s changing from the kindly man he really was to the unpleasant person illness had made him.
Harry had by now progressed to the wheelchair included in the consultant’s prognosis and had ordered that all the doors in the house be widened. It was no longer possible for Ann to have a moment’s peace, since he was able to follow her while she went about her household tasks downstairs and positioned himself in the hall to shout to and at her when she went upstairs.
It was Howard’s daily task to carry his father from his bedroom to his chair, a reminder of how frail in all but spirit Harry now was, and the latter concentrated in his tongue. Frank, who performed that task when Howard went to Munich, had found himself being castigated no less than was Howard.
Only the family would put up with it – and Uncle Nat hadn’t – Howard was thinking when the girl seated beside him plucked his sleeve.
“Excuse me, but the stewardess has put on your table your lunch.”
He mustered a smile and thanked her for telling him. “I was immersed in my thoughts.”
“And I hesitating before disturbing you. I saw that your eyes were closed and thought perhaps that you preferred the nap to the food. Like the man sitting beside me o
n a flight from Berlin to London, who was not pleased when I wakened him!”
Howard turned to look at her and could not but be charmed by what he saw. Grey-green eyes with a humorous glint in them, a retroussé nose enhancing her pert appearance, milky skin made to seem the more so by her sleek black hair. Nothing wrong with her shape, either, he noted before giving his attention to his meal.
Did the thoughts he’d just had mean he was getting over Christina? No. The ache was still there. At first it had been like a knife cutting into him, but gradually its edge had dulled. His senses too, because this was the first time since Christina left him that he’d looked twice at another woman.
You only looked once, Howard! But that was enough to tell him he was still alive. Emerging from the despondency that had entombed him.
He buttered a bread roll and looked at the girl again. “Do you live in Munich?”
“I am at present spending some time there,” she replied, “but my home is in Berlin. You are going to Munich on business?”
“No. I’m visiting my little boy.”
“I see.”
“I married a German girl and – well, things went wrong,” he felt constrained to add.
A pause followed, then she gave him a sympathetic smile. “When a marriage breaks down and there are children, it is more hard for the man. Usually he is separated from them, too.”
“I didn’t try to get my child’s custody,” Howard told her. “Living with his mother is best for him.”
“That was not my ex-husband’s attitude,” the girl revealed. “Once, he kidnapped from me my son and my daughter.”
“That couldn’t have been pleasant for them.”
“He does not do that sort of thing any more, and we are now quite civilized with each other and he has remarried.”
“You haven’t?”
She shook her head. “I have time only for my children and my work.”
“Which I gather takes you away from home. Who looks after them when you’re away?” Howard inquired.
“I am blessed with a wonderful mother. It is with my parents that I and my children live. Their father he sees them as often as his new wife will allow.”