by Lynne Truss
‘Tanner? Whatever time your appointment is with the madwoman,’ he barked, ‘you’ve got to bring it forward!’
‘Sorry?’ yelled Leon. The noise of the basketball warm-up event behind him made chatting difficult. Tanner had gone to buy a coffee and left his mobile on the desk. Leon had helpfully answered it. ‘This isn’t Tanner—’ he began.
‘What’s that noise? Tanner, where are you?’
‘What?’
‘This is Jago Ripley, for fuck’s sake! You’ve got to go and see the loony as soon as possible!’
‘What?’
Leon had heard this clearly enough, however. ‘What?’ he yelled. He was quite enjoying this. He had never liked Jago much.
Jericho Jones performed a graceful sky-walk slam-dunk, and the place went wild.
‘Stefan’s on his way!’ screamed Jago, amid the approving roar of the Swedes.
‘Sorry, you’re breaking up,’ Leon said, then switched off the mobile and dropped it back on Tanner’s desk.
‘Who was that?’ asked Tanner, returning with hot drinks on a paper tray.
‘No idea,’ shrugged Leon, and looked at his watch. Things were going rather well with his Maggie mission. He just had to get to the hospital before Stefan Johansson.
Meanwhile, back in London, Jago chewed the edge of his desk with excitement. It would be accurate to say that his interest in this story had been revived. Stefan had a secret, all right! He was acting like a guilty clone! And, with any luck, the whole story would unfold within the extremely short range of Jago Ripley’s twenty-four-hour attention span.
When Mother popped in to see Belinda, she found her methodically cleaning her keyboard with finger and spittle.
‘Damn. I mean, hello,’ said Belinda, guiltily. Lucky her mother had not entered earlier and found her counting her Mars bar wrappers. Writing had not been very good today. In fact, according to her word-count software, she’d added fourteen words in total to her manuscript, and two of those were ‘Chapter Three’. But on the bright side, she had enough Mars bar wrappers for a free scratch card, and the function keys and space bar had never looked so shiny.
‘Busy, dear?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Belinda defensively. ‘Very busy. Quite a lot of my time is spent just thinking, you know. It’s not all tap-tap-tap. That’s typing, not writing.’
‘Yes, of course. That’s why all your work takes so long, I expect.’
‘Mm.’
Mother cleared a number of books from Belinda’s couch and sat down. She chose this spot because it was the furthest from the radiator. Gently, she stroked her own cheeks upwards towards her ears, like a cat washing itself.
‘Something up?’ asked Belinda, automatically.
Mother ignored her. ‘Belinda, it isn’t easy to say this, but I feel I must.’
‘What?’
‘I feel you have let yourself go. There. I’ve said it.’
‘Let myself go?’ Belinda laughed.
‘Yes.’
‘Nobody says that any more, Mother. It comes from the days when people wore corsets and plucked their eyebrows, and lived in L-shaped rooms.’
Mother harumphed. ‘You’re not even offended! Oh, Belinda, you’re beyond hope.’
‘What do you expect? I haven’t “let myself go”. Actually, it’s an interesting phrase, when you think about it. It can be a very good thing to let yourself go. Go on, Mother. Let yourself go!’
‘But it’s what you’ve done,’ she protested. ‘You’ve let yourself go. You used to be quite slim and sexy, and now Stefan can hardly bear to look at you. And I don’t blame him. It pains me to say it when you’re my own daughter, but in that cardigan you look absolutely disgusting. I can’t think where you get it from. Have you ever seen me wear a cardigan? Even Auntie Vanessa never wears cardigans and she’s got the worst dress sense of anyone in this family.’
Belinda swallowed hard. The metallic taste of the keyboard dirt made the action all the more unpleasant.
‘Look at your nails! When was the last time you went to the hairdresser? I can’t stand by and watch it any more. This room smells. When I think of how beautifully Linda dresses.’
‘What’s Linda got to do with it?’
‘My own daughter, a human barrage balloon. In a V-neck cardie with pockets. I bought you that beautiful nylon Prada coat last autumn and I found it under the stairs today. It had spiders in it. It was streaked with what I can only describe as snot. I’m having it cleaned, and then I’m giving it to Linda.’
‘Stefan says I’m lovely.’
‘Can’t you see he’s just saying that?’
‘No, he isn’t.’
‘Well. You don’t see the way he looks at Linda when you’re not there. But I can tell you, he can’t take his eyes off her.’
Belinda gasped. This was too much. ‘Well, now I know you’re just being spiteful,’ she cried, and – hardly knowing why she did it – she secretly switched on the two-way baby-listener, so that Linda would hear downstairs in the kitchen, where she was known to be rustling up a delightful dish of squid stewed in tomatoes and lemon before popping off to Broadcasting House to review a new film of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde for Radio 4.
‘Repeat what you just said to me!’ she told her mother, in a loud voice. ‘What are you implying about Stefan and Linda?’
‘I’m merely saying that if you continue to bloat in the dark in extra large T-shirts with Wallace and Gromit on the front, your husband won’t be able to help himself. Linda is a very attractive young woman, who also happens to be a lot nicer than you are, as well as more talented, and with excellent connections in the worlds of both the media and fishmongery. And, being only human, she fancies Stefan as much as we all do.’
Mother stood up and left the room, leaving Belinda to stare down at her extra large T-shirt in a state of confusion. Her mother had all the wrong values, surely? Stefan had told her just an hour ago how much he loved her. He was extremely supportive about the book, too. Besides, who would be interested sexually in a deputy when he could have the real thing? No, Mother was a silly, interfering woman with artificially arched eyebrows who would find any excuse to disparage her own daughter because she was jealous of her intellect. In fact, Belinda was just about to whisper into the intercom, ‘Linda, did you hear all that? What a ridiculous person my mother is!’ when she overheard Mother entering the kitchen.
‘Linda! Darling!’ she said, as if she’d just come home from a terrible day. ‘Can I help with anything?’
Belinda knew she ought to switch off the device, but somehow she couldn’t. Instead, she placed the speaker on her desk, to hear it better. It was crackly, a bit muffled. But good enough to picture the scene. A scrape of a chair told her that her mother was sitting down. A kettle was filled and switched on. Chopping commenced on a wooden board.
‘You’re looking lovely, Linda,’ Mother said. ‘I was just telling Belinda how lucky she is to have you doing everything for her.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Linda, clattering some pans. She sounded strangely brisk. What was up? Surely she’d been flattered by everything Mother had said. It was true that not many people bridge so gracefully those two distinct worlds of the television studio and the fish shop. Belinda notably had contacts in neither.
‘May I say something?’ Linda said, at last. Sizzling and stirring could be heard.
‘Of course.’
‘I think you’re a wicked person,’ said Linda, in a level tone. ‘I couldn’t see it before, I thought we were all on the same side. But I heard what you said to Belinda just now, and I have to tell you I think you’re a cow.’
Belinda was glad she couldn’t see Mother’s inadequate expression of mild surprise, but was torn nevertheless. Should she rush downstairs to make the peace? Or make sure she didn’t miss anything by staying put? She found she had very mixed feelings at hearing Linda call Mother a cow. She wanted to boo and cheer at the same time.
‘I think you should leave the
house and go back to your flat,’ Linda continued. ‘You’ve been very good to me, which makes this hard to say. But I see now you are hurting Belinda, and if you hurt Belinda, you hurt her work. We all know it’s very important for Belinda’s work that she’s not upset.’
‘But Belinda’s work isn’t worth twopence!’ exclaimed Mother, brightly. ‘Face it Linda, you’re twice the person she is. You’re the person everybody likes. Stefan thinks you’re gorgeous.’
‘Take that back,’ warned Linda. She sounded angry.
‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Mother.
‘Take that back.’
‘No.’
Belinda couldn’t believe it. Were they both mad?
‘Put down that frozen salmon, Linda!’ said Mother, her voice rising.
‘Make me,’ said Linda.
At which point, unbelievably, there were sounds of a scuffle.
‘Oh God,’ whispered Belinda. ‘They’re fighting!’
She stood stock-still, staring at the speaker on her desk. She heard a chair knocked over. Bits of crockery fell off the table and smashed. And throughout there were gasps and squeals. There was violence in the kitchen!
‘Linda!’ she yelled into the intercom. ‘Mother! Stop it!’
But the scuffle continued, with the sound effects of oven doors and broken plates until a loud ‘Aieee!’ from Mother announced that something very serious had happened.
‘My face!’ Mother yelled. ‘Linda, you bitch! My face!’
Belinda realized it was time to leave the sidelines. Sometimes it’s all right for an author to abandon her desk – for example, when her loyal cleaning lady is downstairs mutilating her mother. So she loped to the landing, puffed and clung to the banister when she saw stars, then struggled downstairs, reaching the kitchen just in time to see Linda wield a side of frozen salmon round her head, like a claymore.
‘Linda?’ Belinda said. ‘Put down the fish.’
Linda’s arms went limp. It had gone very quiet suddenly. Between them on the kitchen floor Mother already lay unmoving, her face upturned and strangely beautiful. She was dead.
Why did she look so strangely beautiful? As Belinda later learnt, a sudden exposure to the heat of the boiled kettle during the scuffle had made Mother’s features drop perfectly into place for the first time since the lift-job. In death, therefore, she looked natural and not a bit surprised, and the irony was profound. Nobody would ever say, ‘Something up?’ to Mother again. In the turmoil she had slipped on a piece of raw squid, banged her head on the corner of the kitchen table and died instantly. By the time Belinda arrived at the kitchen door, the celestial Fenwick’s had already claimed her mother, its cash tills ringing in praise.
Linda’s eyes were round holes in her face. Belinda thought afterwards it was the first and last time she ever saw Linda frightened.
‘Put the fish down, Linda.’
Linda looked at the salmon as if she had no idea where it came from. ‘I didn’t—’
‘I know.’
‘It was her that was angry. It wasn’t me. I told her to go, that’s all.’
‘I heard.’
‘She wasn’t good enough to be your mother, Belinda. She said I was twice the woman you are! What sort of mother says that?’ Linda’s dismay choked her. Tears rolled down her face. ‘Look,’ she still managed to say, ‘I did this for you, Belinda, and if you’re not happy about it, I’ll go.’
Belinda felt her head swim. She had to be happy about this? It was a bit of a stretch from being happy about a daily diet of eels and haddock to being happy about seeing your mother lifeless on the kitchen floor. Linda really didn’t know where to draw the line, did she? The problem with this situation was that neither of them had the faintest idea where to draw the line.
‘Belinda? Don’t say you’re not happy about this. Please. I don’t want to go. How could I live with myself?’
‘Oh God,’ said Belinda. ‘Come here.’
And as she hugged her insanely loyal cleaning lady, who sobbed in her arms, she noticed with a kind of glum horror that Linda was still cradling a slab of frozen fish.
Nine
Leon’s fifteen years as a sports writer sometimes meant that people made the wrong assumption about him. They considered him a career sports writer, whose life was a perpetual memorizing of results and whose death would be a final whistle of three long blasts. This wasn’t how he saw his own life, however – not at all. True, he liked his job and was good at it. True, he could remember without effort the salient events of Malmö in 1992 or Headingley in 1981. But as far as Leon was concerned, such things did not define him. They weren’t him. The last thing he wanted was to end up like his journalist father (quite a famous chap in certain circles), who became so preoccupied by his own status within the world of sport that by the end of his sad, peculiar life he was arguably deranged.
‘Who was that on the phone? Was it Bobby Moore?’ Dad would call from the shed, while Mother burst into tears, and the boys pretended not to hear. ‘Did I tell you Seve Ballesteros gave me this sombrero? I taught Jack Charlton how to fish.’
The effect on his sons had been interesting, however. While his softer, younger son Leon had decided to try sports writing himself, if only to prove that madness need not be the profession’s inevitable conclusion, the older son Noel became a psychotherapist, to prove that delusional madness is everywhere, not just in people who swan about at the World Cup without paying. Dad had died without being impressed by the achievements of either child, of course. His last words, dutifully relayed by the mystified night cleaner in the terminal ward, left no message to his family. They were instead ‘Tell Pele I’ll get back to him’, from which the family were obliged to derive comfort of a kind. At least they could tell themselves that Dad had been Dad, right to the end.
As a result of their divergent paths in life, Leon rarely saw his brother these days – they had so little in common. But each brother was perfectly aware of the other’s existence. When Maggie first told Noel he looked exactly like a man called Leon, he could (and should) have cleared up the mystery at once. But he didn’t. He chose instead to be mystified and sceptical, because he enjoyed exploiting Maggie’s confusion, and delighted in insisting that Leon did not exist. This was why the sight of her stroking that bloody fluffy racing car made him irrationally angry. It would be true to say that he didn’t like Maggie at all, in fact. She just represented something about his annoying younger brother, whom he had discovered (as all older siblings discover sooner or later) he could not literally murder without the risk of incurring awkward questions.
So trashing Leon’s girlfriend was a more subtle means of exercising his jealousy, and had the benefit of not being criminal. One should try to feel sorry for Noel, really. It can’t be easy when your younger brother is always in Nevada watching sell-out fights with apocalyptic overtones (‘Judgement Night III’ ‘Resurrection Night IX’ ‘Seven Bowls of Wrath Night’) while you spend most afternoons passing tissues to snivelling inadequates in a basement off Tooting Broadway.
‘I’ve got to go out somewhere,’ yelled Leon above the basketball din, putting his coat on.
‘You can’t,’ yelled Tanner. ‘You’ve got to cover the match.’
Half-way through the evening was indeed a bad time for Leon to desert his post, but there was no alternative. ‘File it for me,’ he told Tanner.
Tanner pulled a bad-smell expression. ‘Sorry, don’t write about sport,’ he said.
‘It’s easy,’ Leon assured him, ignoring the put-down. ‘They only want four hundred words, and I’ve done most of it already. Call it LEON when you file and they’ll never guess. Mention lots of statistics and get the names right. How many words can you do in an hour?’
Tanner made a wild guess. ‘Two or three thousand?’
‘Really?’ Leon raised an eyebrow. He was impressed.
‘I mean, two or three hundred.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘I mean, twenty or thirt
y.’
‘Well, whatever,’ said Leon. ‘Have you used one of these?’ He indicated his laptop.
‘Of course,’ scoffed Tanner. ‘My dad’s company pioneered the software.’
‘Then have fun. I’ll see you back at the hotel.’
Outside the sports hall, Leon consulted his Malmö map, straining to hold it against the icy wind. By his reckoning, the University Hospital was an easy walk from the Baltiska Hallen. He gathered his coat against the biting gale and stomped north, wishing he knew more about genetics or, indeed, more about insanity. Blagging his way into unlikely places he was good at. You just carried a coffee in a foam cup, consulted your watch in an exaggerated manner, and shouldered through swing doors as if you knew exactly what to expect on the other side. But what do you do when confronting an insane Swedish woman who holds the key to a genetics mystery? Unless she had the particular delusion that she was the first person Gordon Banks phoned up after the 1966 World Cup final, Leon’s first-hand experience would be sorely inadequate.
‘Bugger,’ he said, leaning into the wind and adjusting his earflaps. Was this really such a good idea? His toes were numb already. Was it possible for eyeballs to freeze this far south of the Arctic Circle? Inside the hall it was cosy and warm and bright. Out here it was like being X-rayed by weather.
But he thought of Maggie and a surge of romantic sappiness warmed his toes and carried him onward. How helpless the poor girl was! In love with a man who had taken cynical advantage of a terrible tragedy in this poor Ingrid’s life. Stefan must be exposed; there was no doubt about it. As he plunged into the neighbouring area known (unpronounceably) as the Möllevången, he tried finally to gather his thoughts. ‘Nice statue,’ he commented absently, as the appalling boulder-and-bums confection in the Möllevångstorget came into view. And with that excellent critical judgement behind him, Leon forged on against the wind.
‘I must see Ingrid Johansson,’ demanded Stefan, in rather good Swedish, at the hospital reception desk on the ground floor. ‘I have come all the way from England, and I won’t take no for an answer.’