I lifted the keys from the pocket of Ant’s jacket and headed out into the drizzle. We’d only brought the basics: bread, butter, Marmite, tea, coffee and milk, but it was enough to last until we could get to the shop in Stoke Fleming.
When I returned, Marge was in the lounge, staring out through the rain-splattered window at the dingy garden. She made no sign of noticing my return, so I carried the bags into the kitchen, distributed the items between cupboards and the fridge, and then, as a peace offering, I made two mugs of tea. I’d decided that ‘losing it’ would provoke a maelstrom that I might not be able to control. I couldn’t face that prospect, and I specifically didn’t want it happening at the beginning of my holiday, here in my perfect place.
When I carried the mugs of tea into the lounge, I found Marge in the same spot as before, still staring out at the wet garden. She looked as if she’d been deactivated by the use of some magical remote control. ‘Here,’ I said, holding out one of the mugs.
She turned her head so slowly and in such a smooth manner that she truly looked like a robot. As her face was devoid of emotion, there was something creepy, something deeply menacing, about her that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
She looked at me as if she had no idea who I was, and I remember wondering if she’d perhaps had a stroke, or whether this was the beginning of Alzheimer’s. If I’m being honest, I have to admit that by that point, neither possibility exactly filled me with horror. My God, how quickly abuse can destroy what was once a basically charitable nature.
But then Marge blinked, forced a rictus of a smile revealing stained dentures, and reached for the mug. ‘Thanks, you’re a sweetheart,’ she said, reinforcing the impression that she’d momentarily forgotten who I was, or who she was, or perhaps both.
She sipped at her drink, pulled a face, and said, ‘Oh, this ain’t tea, love. This is cat’s pee.’
I think my mouth fell open. I was certainly lost for words.
Muttering, ‘Jesus! How the hell anyone can get to your age without knowing how to make a decent cuppa . . . !’, she left the room.
In a weird, dreamlike mood – perhaps a nightmare mood would be more accurate – I followed her through to the kitchen and watched from the doorway as she tipped the tea I had made down the sink, and filled the kettle to start again from scratch.
‘You don’t like the tea,’ I heard myself say without emotion.
‘No, I don’t,’ Marge replied.
‘You don’t like me very much, do you?’ I added. Wow! I thought. Daring!
She glanced at me, frowned, and worked her wrinkled lips silently for a moment before returning her attention to the kettle. ‘Like you,’ she repeated flatly.
‘Yes . . . you don’t. You really don’t, do you?’ I repeated.
‘Well, I don’t dislike you,’ she said, surprising me.
‘You don’t?’
‘No, not really,’ she said, still addressing the kettle.
‘Well, let’s say that you don’t think much of me, then,’ I said. ‘And I really don’t know why that is.’
‘I don’t think much of you,’ she repeated, sounding thoughtful. Then, ‘No, I wouldn’t say that’s true either, dear.’
Surprised at this, and thinking that maybe we were actually making progress here, that perhaps all that had been needed all along was for me to challenge her, I asked, ‘So what would you say about it, Marge? What would you say is true?’
She shrugged again. ‘I dunno really,’ she said.
‘Really? You don’t know? Or you won’t say?’
‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘if pushed . . . I mean, if you really pushed me to say something, I’d have to admit that I don’t really think about you at all.’
I took a sharp intake of breath and felt myself flush red from the verbal slap.
‘I mean, you did ask,’ Marge said. ‘You sort of insisted, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I whispered.
‘And the thing is, well, it’s just that there’s not much to think about, is there, love? There’s so little to you. So, I suppose, if I was forced, like, to think about it, I’d say that the only real problem I have with you is that.’
Because her comment contained a shadow of truth, because so much of my personality had vanished over the years, it cut me to the bone. So, I didn’t say a word. I simply put my mug of tea down on the counter and turned and went back to the bedroom, where I lay, drowning silently in a mixture of shame and rage. When Lucy came in half an hour later, I feigned sleep until, thankfully, Ant climbed from the bed.
The rain continued and because, when I occasionally did get up for the bathroom or for a drink, the atmosphere in the house felt quite suffocating, I pretended to be ill and basically hid in the bedroom all day.
Finally, at about five, Ant came and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Do we need a doctor?’ he asked, laying the back of his hand across my forehead. ‘Or are you going to get up?’ The message was clear enough: I’d reached the end of my permitted downtime.
That evening we ate in the Green Dragon in Stoke Fleming. The food was basic pub grub, but it was well cooked and tasty: burgers for Ant and his mother, a huge cheese ploughman’s plus some sides for me and the girls.
Their behaviour was angelic, but still Marge managed to find fault, telling Lucy off for not holding the huge knife properly and mocking little Sarah for asking if someone could remove the ‘slimy bit’ from the inside of the onion ring.
‘It’s an onion ring,’ Marge told her. ‘And if you take out the onion, it won’t be a bloody onion ring, will it? So stop being daft and just eat, will you?’
‘She’s fine,’ I told her, as I proceeded to extract the onion from the batter.
‘You need to get these kids eating properly,’ Marge said. ‘Stop catering to all their silly whims and wants, because they’ll drive you insane if—’
‘She’s fine!’ I said again, shooting Ant a glare.
I think he must have sensed just how close to the edge I was, because, unusually, he backed me up. ‘She’s only six, Mum,’ he said. ‘Give her a break, OK?’
Marge snorted. ‘Because what could I possibly know about child rearing?’ she muttered.
It was still drizzling when we stepped back outside, and though I was starting to enjoy a certain sense of satisfaction that the weather was ruining Marge’s holiday, I wasn’t so caught up in it that I didn’t notice it was spoiling ours as well. So it was with relief (plus a smidgin of perverse disappointment) that I received news that tomorrow would be sunny.
That evening we watched a couple of films, which everyone except Marge enjoyed.
Having declared them ‘pointless spearmint for the mind’, she dozed off in her armchair, so by shifting sideways in my seat, I was able to pretend she wasn’t there.
About three in the morning, Ant woke me up, purportedly to ask how I was feeling.
Such concern was rare enough, but actually waking me up to ask me seemed plain weird.
‘I’m fine,’ I told him, frowning, yawning and glancing at the alarm clock simultaneously. ‘Why? Is something wrong with one of the girls?’
‘I just wanted to check you’re OK,’ he said.
‘I’m fine,’ I told him again, feeling annoyed that he’d woken me for nothing. ‘I just need to sl—’
‘I know exactly what you need,’ he said, pulling at my shoulder in an attempt to get me to roll on to my stomach.
‘No, Ant,’ I said, pushing back. ‘I’m sleepy. In fact, I am asleep.’
‘I think I might know how to wake you up,’ he said, in what I guessed was supposed to be his sexy voice.
‘Ant, no,’ I said again, but he was pulling so hard that I had no choice but to give way.
‘I’m horny,’ he said, lowering his weight on to my back. I could tell from the hard sensation against my buttocks that what he was saying was the truth.
‘That’s as maybe, but I’m not, Ant,’ I whined. ‘I’m sleepy.’
‘You don’t have to do anything,’ he said. ‘Just let me—’
‘No!’ I said, squeezing my legs together.
‘It’s been ages,’ he said, starting to sound angry. ‘It’s been fucking for ever.’
I thought about pointing out that it was he who had ceased asking for sex, but as that absence of sex had suited me, it felt like it would be a strategic error to do so.
‘All right then,’ I finally sighed, thinking that the choice here was between an argument or sex, and that the sex option almost certainly took less effort. ‘Just not . . . you know.’
‘Not here?’ he asked, running a finger down between my butt cheeks.
‘No, not there,’ I said, in the most definitive tone of voice I could manage. ‘I’m sore.’
‘Not from me, you’re not,’ Ant said. ‘Who’s been making you sore, then?’
‘No, not from you, Ant,’ I told him. ‘From pooing.’ And that seemed to do the trick. I’d managed to make his preferred option seem suddenly far less sexy. I only wished I’d thought of it before.
‘Oh, OK then,’ he said, rolling me over on to my back and lowering himself on top of me instead. ‘Let’s play missionaries.’
Would I have chosen to have sex with him at that precise moment? No, of course not. In fact, had it been up to me, I’m not sure we would ever have had sex again.
But my body responded and about five minutes in I forgot to be annoyed with him about it and started to enjoy the sensations of him over me, within me – that long-forgotten feeling of being consumed.
As ever, Ant seemed to be going for gold, and I was pretty sure that his aim was to force me to get noisy. He had always seemed to need witnesses for everything, as if, without someone watching, he couldn’t know what was real. I suspect his ego was so fragile that he needed external proof that he was good, that he was successful, that he existed, perhaps. But with the girls in the room to the left, and Marge in the room to the right, I simply couldn’t allow myself to fulfil that need tonight.
‘Ant,’ I said, through my breath. ‘Quiet. The girls.’
It was then that I noticed a thin strip of light across the ceiling and, as Ant ignored my request for calm and went at it with ever more vigour, I twisted sideways in an attempt at looking across the room. But I couldn’t see. The room was too dark and Ant’s big body was obscuring the view.
‘A— A— Ant . . .’ I panted, managing to point to the wall behind him. ‘The door.’
‘What?’ he asked, straining to look over his shoulder.
Only when he froze did I finally get to see why the door was half open. I thought for a moment I was going to throw up.
‘Mum . . .’ Ant said. ‘Close the door.’
But Marge didn’t move. She looked, once again, as if she’d been switched off.
‘Mum!’ Ant repeated, more loudly. ‘Close the fucking door!’
He started to roll off me then, but aware that if he did so, it was me who Marge would see naked rather than her son, I pulled him close. ‘No,’ I said, gesturing. ‘Grab that sheet.’
By the time Ant had reeled in the covers and pulled them over us, the door had silently closed.
Saying, ‘Well, that was strange,’ Ant centred himself on top of me and started grinding his hips against mine once again.
‘You are joking, right?’ I told him. When he continued, I said, ‘No, Ant. Stop!’ And when still he continued, I whacked the side of his head.
He froze. Time stood still.
It hadn’t been a hard slap by any means, but it was the first time I’d ever hit him, so I wondered if, for the first time ever, he would now hit me back.
Thanks be, he simply rolled off me. ‘Fuck you then,’ he said. And promptly started to masturbate.
In the morning, I was woken by the sound of Sarah crying. Telling Ant, who was also stirring, to sleep on, I pulled my dressing gown around me and went next door to the girls’ room.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, quickly closing the door behind me.
Sarah was red-faced and snotty. ‘She stole Piggy,’ she told me, pointing at Lucy in the bed across the room. Piggy was Sarah’s once-fluffy, now-bald piglet that she’d slept with almost since birth.
‘She gave him to me,’ Lucy said, which, though most unlikely, was not entirely impossible.
‘Give it to me,’ I said, sweeping Sarah up in my arms, then crouching down and extending the other hand to receive the stolen piglet.
Lucy shrugged and produced the toy from beneath the covers. ‘I don’t want her stupid pig anyway,’ she said.
But as the toy changed hands, Sarah, emboldened by my presence, took a swipe at her sister, managing to just about make contact. Lucy, of course, started crying.
‘Oh, stop it, both of you!’ I said. ‘You’ve got your piglet back, and she didn’t hurt you at all.’ That didn’t calm either of them down.
‘Hey, hey, HEY!’ I said, jiggling Sarah, while attempting to stroke Lucy’s head. ‘Hey, how about . . . we go to the beach?’
‘The beach?’ Lucy asked. Sarah’s sobbing had ceased, too.
‘Why not? The rain’s stopped. If you’re really, really quiet and you don’t wake Grandma up, we could have breakfast down on the beach.’
‘What, like a picnic?’ Lucy asked, bright-eyed.
‘Exactly like a picnic,’ I said. ‘A breakfast picnic.’
The girls, motivated by the idea of a picnic on the beach, were as good as gold, creeping around the house and whispering excitedly. I managed to pull everything together before either Marge or Anthony woke up.
Beneath the surface, the sand was still soaked from the previous day’s rain, but the sun was shining and the sea was calm, and we were finally alone on our beach. All was well.
We ate jam sandwiches and drank milk straight from the bottle, and then I stretched out on the already damp towel as the girls ran into the waves.
Blackpool Sands had suddenly become paradise again. I closed my eyes for a moment and let the sunshine warm my face.
About ten, Anthony joined us briefly. ‘I wondered where you’d all gone,’ he said. ‘It was weird waking up in an empty house.’
‘We’re just here,’ I said, thinking about last night and feeling relieved that he seemed to be in a reasonable mood despite it.
‘Where’s Mum?’ he asked, scanning the beach.
I told him I didn’t know and that I’d assumed she was at the house.
‘She must have gone for a wander,’ he said. ‘I hope she doesn’t get lost.’
‘Indeed,’ I replied. It was as much as I could do not to raise an eyebrow.
He wandered off in search of Marge, leaving me alone with the girls once again.
‘Can you help us make a dam?’ Lucy asked.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Of course I can!’
At midday, Ant returned. He hadn’t found Marge and was starting to sound concerned.
‘She’s fine,’ I told him.
‘You don’t know that,’ he said. ‘Anything could have happened.’
I asked if he’d tried calling her, but it seemed she’d left her phone in the bedroom.
‘Well, maybe she wants some time alone,’ I said. ‘It happens.’
He started to leave again, so I asked him if he’d nip up to the café first for sandwiches. When he pulled a face, I offered to do it instead. ‘Just keep an eye on the girls for me. It’ll only take five minutes.’
I picked up my handbag and started to cross to the beach café. But the sand was surprisingly hot, so I returned for my flip-flops and, as an afterthought, pulled on a T-shirt and shorts. I’d have to cross the restaurant, after all.
With it being Saturday and the first sunny day for a week, the beach café was busy, so it wasn’t until I’d almost reached the counter that I spotted Marge. She was seated at a table playing cards with two elderly gentlemen, and she looked like she was having fun. I remember being surprised, because I’d honestly never imagined that she had any ca
pacity for actual enjoyment.
It took a moment before she saw me watching, but when she did, she nodded in my direction and then leaned in to discreetly tell the men some scurrilous snippet.
I didn’t know what she’d said but I could see their reaction clearly enough: one of the men, the one with what was obviously a toupee, laughed, while the bald one sniggered and looked away.
When the man in front of me finished paying and moved away, I stepped forward so that the cashier could ring up my purchases: three sandwiches and a bottle of juice – items I squashed into my handbag.
When I turned to leave, they were still glancing at me, still laughing, and something within me snapped. I marched over to their table to confront them. ‘Morning, Marge. Is something funny?’ I asked.
Marge pulled an expression of fake innocence and shook her head. ‘Not at all, dear,’ she said.
‘Hello,’ wig man said, extending a hand. ‘I’m Billy.’
‘You looked like you were laughing at me,’ I said, ignoring him. I was hearing my own words as I spoke and feeling embarrassed at how childish they sounded. I was also becoming hyperconscious of the fact that people at nearby tables were turning to look. ‘I thought you might like to share the joke, that’s all,’ I added quietly. ‘I could do with a laugh.’
‘Oh, there’s no joke!’ Marge said, sounding entirely disingenuous. ‘No joke at all. And no laughter ’ere, dear. We wouldn’t dare, would we?’
I rolled my eyes at the ceiling and turned to leave. But as I started to slalom between the tables, I heard her mutter, ‘Anyways, after last night, I’m all laughed out, ain’t I?’ and as I glanced back at them, Billy cracked up once again.
I span on one foot and returned. I hitched my handbag higher on my shoulder and gripped the edge of the table. ‘What did you just say?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ Marge said, looking with barely disguised mirth between her two companions.
‘Yeah, c’mon, Madge,’ said the man who wasn’t Billy, glancing at me apologetically before lowering his gaze to his hands. ‘That’s a bit under the belt.’
‘It’s Marge,’ she said. ‘Get it right.’
From Something Old Page 6