by Amanda James
At the moment we’re in the car on the way to stay with James and Beth. This wasn’t at all planned, but James happened to ring just as we were about to leave Louisa’s and head for home. James said that as our bags were already packed, why didn’t we pop up to them for a few days? I wasn’t sure how I felt about this, because it was one thing meeting James for a few hours near where I live, and another thing entirely staying in his home, particularly as we hadn’t even met his wife yet. What if Beth and I don’t get on? That would be most uncomfortable. I said I’d discuss it and get back to him.
After a chat with Louisa and Caleb I was persuaded to go. They quite rightly said that we could leave early if there were any problems, and it was unlikely that Beth and I wouldn’t get on, given what I’d told them about her after my meeting with James. I remembered I had almost told James at the time that I’d like to meet her but didn’t, because the invite should come from them. So here was the invite.
My brother and sister-in-law certainly live in a lovely part of the world. We are driving through the main street of Topsham, a picturesque and ancient settlement on the river about five miles or so from Exeter. The Vincents live in a fifteenth-century farmhouse in the rolling Devon countryside. As we approach it via the twisty lanes, I’m reminded of an old advert for rice pudding. The whole area is truly idyllic. Perhaps there will be a painting opportunity while we are here.
I have already committed Caleb to canvas as he rested in an old wicker chair of Jagger’s in the shade of the vines. Both he and Louisa were delighted with it and I must admit, it is pretty special. It might be nice to paint him under the full sunshine in the hills or around here, or perhaps by the riverside. The trouble with using Caleb as a subject though is that I won’t want to put the results up for sale, and I do need more artwork pretty quickly if I am to open in October. The answer might be to paint lots more of him and then at least I can allow some to grace the walls of my studio.
‘I think this is it, can you check?’ Caleb is saying and I’m aware that the car is stationary. My thoughts of painting float off into the ether and I focus on the low-rise L-shaped structure at the end of the gravel drive on which we are parked. The house is built of stone with slate roof and large deep-set windows, the foreground sprinkled with wild flowers. So beautiful. If I could pick somewhere to live, this house would be it, and I’ve not even seen inside yet. I’d have to move it to the ocean though, of course. I couldn’t be without that.
‘The sign said Moonridge Farm, is that what we’re after?’ Caleb asks, peering at the bit of paper in my hand.
‘It is. A lovely name for a lovely house.’
The stable door opens, and James comes out, arms waving like a windmill, followed by a small slight woman with caramel skin and the cheekbones of a fashion model. They’re her own cheekbones, obviously – she just looks like a model. She’s wearing a multicoloured boho dress and her dark hair is long and in two plaits over her shoulders.
‘Welcome, both. You found us okay?’ James asks, hugging me briefly, and shakes hands with Caleb. We say we did and then James introduces Beth.
‘I am so happy to meet you at last,’ she says to me and puts her hand lightly on my arm. Her beautiful face is lit by a huge smile and there is so much warmth in her eyes that I surprise myself by giving her a quick hug.
‘Likewise.’ I step back and slip my arm through Caleb’s. ‘This is Caleb,’ I say unnecessarily, as James has obviously told her all about him, but I am feeling slightly awkward, despite the warm welcome, so I have to fill any silences. I think it’s because I want everything to go smoothly.
Caleb and Beth hug and then James leads the way indoors. It’s just as lovely inside as out and we take a seat on a big comfy sofa facing French windows that look across a sweep of yet more fields and rolling hills. On the patio, which is dotted with pots of bright flowers, there’s a black-and-white cat stretching itself languidly under the late afternoon sun and a smaller ginger one at the bottom of the lawn sharpening its claws on the fence.
Beth says that the black-and-white is called Pie, the other Marmalade, and both are her pride and joy. ‘They might not be in a few months’ time,’ James says bringing in a tray of nibbles. ‘The baby will be number one, then.’
‘I guess you’re right, but I have room in my heart for all the family, human and non-human,’ Beth says and pulls her tongue out at him.
‘Even me?’ James says, dropping a kiss on her forehead.
‘Well, that might be pushing it a bit.’ Beth laughs and tosses a few peanuts into her mouth. The fact that they are a perfect match is imprinted on the look they give each other. I then wonder if there actually is such a thing as a perfect match, or if it’s just something we are meant to aspire to as a partnership.
But then I take a step back as if I’m in an audience in a theatre and watch their gestures, their eye contact and body language as objectively as is possible while they talk about the house, the cats, what their favourite flowers are, and I conclude that it is blatantly obvious that they are very fond of each other – dare I say it, in love, even. I know without doubt that it isn’t an act. Their feelings are almost palpable.
James goes off to get drinks and for the second time today I surprise myself by saying, ‘You seem very happy together – I’m glad.’
Beth nods and relaxes back into an easy chair by the windows. ‘Thank you, yes we are, ridiculously so.’ Her face grows serious and she holds my gaze. ‘I do worry that such happiness won’t last, you know? It doesn’t seem fair sometimes that we have such a lovely life when others live in misery.’
The depth of feeling in her voice is so genuine that I warm to her even more. She is obviously a kind and caring woman and patients must love her. ‘I know what you mean, I think. Perhaps there is some mileage in the karma thing – what goes around, comes around. If you are good and kind to others, then you reap the rewards,’ I say.
Caleb nods and slips his hand into mine. ‘I’d like to think that’s true, but sometimes good and kind people have awful lives.’
‘Yes.’ I sigh. ‘Perhaps there is actually no such thing as karma. I try to be good and kind when I can, though. Why be horrid to folk if there’s no need?’
‘Exactly,’ Beth says. ‘And I can think of quite a few people who are horrid but have great lives.’ She wrinkles her nose at us. ‘Doesn’t seem fair, really.’
There is a wicked response waiting on my tongue that really oughtn’t to be allowed free, given my new outlook, but I can’t resist. ‘True. Talking of Mother, I hear you visited her recently.’
Beth looks at my deadpan expression, but she must have caught the humour in my eyes and snorts down her nose. ‘Do you know, I was just thinking exactly the same but daren’t say so, of course!’
Caleb laughs and so do I. Then I say, ‘I shouldn’t have said it really, because she did apologise after a fashion, and I am trying to look to the future in a positive way.’
James comes in with the drinks and he pretends to be offended by us when we explain what we are all laughing at. He folds his arms and says in an excellent imitation of Mother’s voice, ‘I fail to see the humour in it. All I have ever done is my best for everybody, and this is how you repay me – my own flesh and blood.’
Everyone collapses at that and we go on to have one of the best times ever. Later, after dinner, Caleb and James are in the sitting room playing cards and Beth and I are sitting at the kitchen table over a drink. She has a glass of elderflower pressé, no alcohol of course because of the baby – much to her disgruntlement. ‘It’s not that bad, really. I don’t miss having a drink, you know, I can take it or leave it,’ she says, tapping her fingernails along the stem of her glass.
I smile and take a sip of wine.
‘Oh my goodness, what’s that out there?’ Beth says suddenly and points to the window, her eyes wide, her other hand on her chest.
I whip my head in that direction and feel her fingers snake around my glass. I look at he
r in surprise and she heaves a heavy sigh and folds her arms. ‘Damn it, I nearly got away with that…’
We both laugh and then talk about her work, my painting, and eventually fall into a discussion about Mother and it seems so easy and natural to talk about it all to her, I can hardly believe it.
‘I do wonder if Mother’s behaviour after James came back was due to the fact that she was traumatised after she was forced to give him up, or if she’s always been a right cow,’ my tone is light-hearted, but I mean every word.
‘That’s hard to tell, really. I think what makes up someone’s personality is very complex. In the early days, parents have a huge influence on our lives, obviously, and wider societal influences and individual life experience helps to shape who we are later on.’
I nod. Beth must have had some sociological theory in her education somewhere. ‘Yes. That’s what I think, too. There’s the ongoing nature versus nurture debate, though, isn’t there? How much of an individual’s behaviour is guided by nature, in other words innate, and how much is to do with everything else you just outlined.’
‘Yes. I don’t like to think of anyone being born bad, though, do you? Some people still believe that nowadays. I see it as the easy option. It stops you having to think about societal influence. It’s really political, too. Because let’s say that if someone is a thief, murderer, rapist etcetera, it’s because they were born bad, it’s in their genetic make-up and that’s it. It has nothing to do with poverty, a violent upbringing or powerlessness for example. The ruling elite and politicians and the like are therefore off the hook.’
Beth and I are so much alike it’s uncanny. ‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘It’s so refreshing to meet someone that has similar ideas to me. There must be an element of nature, though? Isn’t that what makes us all different – even if identical twins grow up under the same conditions they are still likely to act in different ways, sometimes. They aren’t clones of each other.’
‘Yes. But each twin will have slightly different life experiences, especially as they grow up and away from the family nucleus. So, it’s hard to say how much of the difference in personality is nature and nurture. Perhaps we will never know.’ Beth shrugs and gives me a smile.
‘What was your upbringing like, Beth?’ I ask because I am genuinely interested. Sometimes people ask those questions out of politeness or convention. I can’t see the point of that, because if the story turns out to be boring you have to pretend interest with a rictus grin stretched across your face.
‘The best. Don’t get me wrong, having a black dad and white mum wasn’t always plain sailing. There were always plenty of bigots and small-minded people ready to have a pop. But we three children had a stable home with parents who loved us and each other. I couldn’t want for more.’
I’m happy for her, of course I am, but there is a smidgen of jealousy hanging about my mind and I wish there wasn’t. To bury it I say, ‘Glad to hear it. James tells me that your dad’s family originates from Nigeria.’
‘Yes. Dad was born here but Granddad came over here from Nigeria in the nineteen fifties.’ Beth shakes her head and looks at her hands splayed out on the table. ‘Dad’s upbringing was a totally different kettle of fish to mine. He was beaten on a regular basis. Nigerian culture sees that as normal – or did then. Spare the rod, spoil the child and all that crap.’
‘Your poor dad. Yet he never raised a hand to you?’
‘No. I think Mum’s influence helped, but I think he never wanted to inflict pain on his children after the horrible way he and his siblings were treated.’
An uncomfortable thought pushes its way to the front of my mind and brings a few sheepish friends with it. ‘Compared to your dad’s, my situation wasn’t that bad at all, was it?’
Beth’s eyes grow wide and she takes my hand. ‘Of course, it was. Just because there was no physical abuse, you suffered just as much. Perhaps more. Words can be just as wounding as having a broom across your back or a punch to the head. Words can be lethal weapons.’
I nod and think about that and wonder if I would have preferred beating to being told that I was Mother’s penance, a nasty little bitch, hard to love and all the rest of it. A tough call. I read somewhere that a victim of abuse said the bruises heal, but the wounds words leave behind are still open years after. I don’t want to think about this anymore and take my glass to the sink. ‘Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know I made a list of names for the baby,’ I say and nod at Beth’s tiny bump.
‘Ooh, let’s see,’ she says, a big smile on her face.
‘It’s not a very long one.’ I pull the list from my jeans pocket and push it across the table to her.
Beth taps the bit of paper with her nail as she reads down each of the list of eight names. ‘Nice, hmm, no, lovely, perhaps, really nice, no, hmm.’ She looks up at me and smiles again. ‘Thanks, Lottie. I’ll show James and let you know. There are at least two that I really like.’
Though it has become important to me that I help choose the name for my niece or nephew, I would hate it if they went ahead just to please me. ‘You know, it’s a huge decision, the child will have that name forever, so please say if you don’t really want any of them.’
‘Oh, believe me, I would, Lottie. I’m a bit like you there. I say what I think even though it might not go down well.’
‘Yes, James told me what you said to Mother about counselling.’ A chortle rolls in my throat unexpectedly. I sit back down opposite.
Beth wrinkles her nose. ‘I wasn’t joking, either. I often feel that she’s “on the edge”.’
‘Oh yes, me too. I do wonder if my granddad is partly to blame for the way she is. I mean, besides the fact that he made her give up James. He was very domineering, used to getting his own way… though my gran was one of the most wonderful people to have walked the earth. She had a quiet confidence and didn’t take shit from anyone, certainly not her husband. Gran told Mother that they would work something out if she wanted to keep her baby, but I suppose she didn’t want to enough, in the end.’
‘I’m no psychiatrist, but that could be the kernel of the whole problem.’ Beth turns her palms to the ceiling and shrugs. ‘The guilt.’
‘Yes, Mother said that on the phone. She also blamed it on her father… but now I look at it in the light of our conversation, it could have been down to her in the long run. Yes, Granddad made it hard for her, and my other grandparents too, but with Gwendoline behind her, she could have dug her heels in… I’m sure of it.’
There is a little lull as we sit with our own thoughts for company. What happened feels clearer now, but I mustn’t forget that Mother was only sixteen at the time – who am I to judge what she should have done? Dad was probably just as wimpy back then as he is now, in fact more so. He would have just gone along with what everyone else wanted, and if Mother didn’t want it enough, then he would have supported her decision.
‘You okay?’ Beth says, tapping my wrist.
‘I will be. And no matter how much I toss it all up and down in my head, it still happened. Then there was the counselling, the suicidal thoughts, the self-harm. I can’t change that, and I’ve already started to deal with it. In a way, there’s no point going over and over it, is there?’
‘I guess not. But in my experience, things like this do need revisiting from time to time with fresh eyes.’ Beth laughs. ‘I call it “protracted closure”.’
My eyes roll, and I laugh, too. ‘Has your husband told you how much I love that word?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Hmm.’ I narrow my eyes and my mouth twists itself to the side.
‘I’m going to say something that might be a bit embarrassing for you – it might not, of course.’ Beth’s expression turns serious and my heart does a bit of a thump. ‘All this talk about family and the past has made me realise something connected to that old saying, you can’t choose your family, but thank God you can choose your friends.’
She stops and looks at me. I feel unco
mfortable. Why doesn’t she just finish what she has to say? ‘What has it made you realise?’
‘That James and I are incredibly lucky to have found a family member that we would also certainly pick as a friend. I’m so pleased you are in our lives, Lottie.’
The kick of pleasure in my gut switches a heater on in my face and Beth says she’s sorry she’s embarrassed me. I shake my head and say, ‘I’m not embarrassed, just very flattered and very pleased… and I’m lucky, too.’
James and Caleb walk in and ask if there’s any wine left, which I’m pleased about, because I don’t think either of us know what to say next. I watch Beth sorting drinks for everyone, the men chatting about something unimportant in the Vincents’ homely kitchen, and I try to commit the moment to memory. It isn’t a turning point, or anything of significance really (though the wider context is, of course), but it is real and genuine, you know? One of those times when you realise that you aren’t doing anything extraordinary, but that the swell of happiness inside you grows so big that you just have to acknowledge it.
I could ask if I could paint them all tomorrow in here, so I will have a physical aid memoire, but then the moment would be lost, contrived and meaningless. No. My eyes and brain can handle the painting right now and I have a feeling that they will do a much better job for me. James catches my eye and asks if I’m okay.
‘I am very okay, James. In fact, I’m bloody marvellous.’
26
Not for Sale
It’s October and the day before the opening of The Calico Cat. Sorry I’ve neglected you, but you’ll have to forgive me as I have been very busy. Okay, let me catch you up. The stay with the Vincents was lovely and James and I have talked on the phone a few times since. Me and Beth text regularly, too, and at last I have a real friend of around my own age. You know I said before that I didn’t really have many friends because they got on my nerves? This isn’t true of Beth at all. We have loads of shared ideas and interests and we can speak plainly without worry of offending.