Heather, Ruth and Miriam had poked the fire in the drawing room into life and had retreated around it, declaring themselves perished to the bone and weary as hell; they had eschewed tea and called for cocktails. Rob was at his computer, still beavering away diligently on his coursework. Toby, excluded, played sullenly on his Gameboy. Of Les, June, Granddad Robert and Granny, there was absolutely no sign.
Ben sat next to Jude on the piano stool, as solemn as a statue. He hardly dared to breathe. It was as though Uncle Jude was an older, wiser version of himself, a version which had received answers to all the questions music asked, explored and conquered the territory which music occupied and was here to show him the map.
Jude pulled the paper and pencil towards them, ‘I’m a bit rusty at writing music long-hand! But we’ll have a go, shall we?’ He drew a stave and a curly treble clef. ‘Now, I’m suggesting that we go for F major. So that will mean...’ he hesitated his pencil over the beginning of the stave.
‘B flat,’ Ben whispered, as though reciting a holy word.
‘Good lad.’ Jude drew it in. ‘Can you think of any other tunes in F major?’
Ben nodded solemnly. ‘Beethoven’s 6th. And 8th,’ he said.
Jude smiled. ‘Good. Can you play either of them?’ Ben shook his head sadly. ‘No, neither can I. But Beethoven was in good company. Listen to this.’ Jude picked out Happy Birthday to You, ‘That’s in F major. So is Bat out of Hell, Hey Jude and Yesterday.’ Jude played a phrase from each. ‘So if it’s good enough for them, I guess it’s good enough for us, yes?’
Ben nodded again.
‘OK. Now let’s write down what we started with,’ Jude picked out the phrase he had whistled earlier. An octave below him, Ben followed suit. Jude wrote the melody onto their stave. Then they played it again and again, and let the tune find its way, extending itself a few notes at a time, sometimes Jude, sometimes Ben finding the way.
‘It’s almost like the tune’s singing itself to us,’ Ben said wonderingly, after a while. ‘We play something and we know it isn’t right, it feels sort of uncomfortable and... itchy. But then we play something else and it feels… at home.’
Jude turned in his seat to observe his small companion with aged eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s exactly like that.’
‘Ha!’ Elliot ejaculated, suddenly. He looked up. Belinda was by the sink whittling radishes into rosebuds, Simon was carving meat, James was counting cutlery. Muriel, in the easy chair by the Aga, was studying a puzzle book. They all jumped at Elliot’s cry; Simon sliced his left index finger with the carving knife.
‘Fuck, Elliot!’ Simon hissed, his finger in his mouth.
‘Look! Here! Here it is! An error in the macro on line forty-five!’ Elliot indicated the computer. ‘It’s cocked up all the totals. It’s no wonder the quotes are wrong.’
‘Oh good, darling. I’m so glad you’ve found it,’ Belinda said with forced serenity. ‘I knew you would.’
‘So am I,’ Muriel agreed. She didn’t know what a spreadsheet was, or a macro; she supposed it was like a very tricky Sudoku puzzle. ‘I made a mistake on my crossword puzzle yesterday. Six across. It stopped everything else from fitting properly. It is very frustrating.’
‘It’s easy to make mistakes like that,’ James placated. ‘Especially when you’re distracted. Just one wrong keystroke…’
‘But I’d checked them all...’ Elliot blustered. ‘They were right…’
‘Well,’ James demurred, regretfully, ‘clearly not…’
‘Perhaps you emailed an earlier version of your document. I’ve done that,’ offered Simon from the sink where he held his finger under the tap.
Elliot stood up. ‘No, no. Not possible. I didn’t get this wrong…’ he spoke slowly, as though addressing a group of mental incompetents, ‘therefore, clearly...’
‘You think someone interfered,’ James finished the sentence off for him. There was a portentous pause.
Simon approached the table, his finger swathed in kitchen roll. ‘Are you accusing anyone in particular, Elliot?’
Facing both brothers-in-law across the table, Elliot hesitated fractionally. It would be easy for them to make out he was over-reacting; he had a habitual tendency to over-egg even quite ordinary things which meant that at times of real crisis his behaviour could easily be dismissed as hysterical. He knew it of himself and occasionally a window of self-knowledge would open, through which he regarded his actions with critical helplessness. But this was really serious and he seemed unable to make them see it. Indeed in some ways he didn’t want them to see it; it could only reflect badly on him. The consequences of the incorrect quotes were almost incalculable. He had been tendering for some enormous jobs, huge contracts, and while some of his existing customers might be persuaded to accept a re-quote, have a laugh at Elliot’s expense over a pricey dinner or a bottle of VSOP, he would lose all credibility with the new, prospective clients if he admitted to them that his quotes were wrong. In so many ways discretion would have been the better part of valour but Elliot had set his foot upon the road and was incapable of U turn.
‘I suppose it was one of the children.’ Even to himself, his suggestion was lame.
‘You can’t make such general accusations, Elliot,’ Belinda put in bravely, drying her hands on the tea towel. Her snake of anxiety was back, coiling itself around her innards, making her breath come in shallow draughts. But the quiet conversations she had had with James, the gentle way Simon had ensured that she got a day out of the kitchen today, somehow gave her the confidence and balance she needed.
Elliot was beginning to feel cornered. In fact to a certain extent he was literally trapped, between the long bench and the table. Already on his feet, he needed to move, to pace, to wave his arms around, but the wires of the laptop and his files of papers and the encroaching buffet dishes all impeded his way. Physically restrained, his only option was to pick on the weakest member of the opposition. ‘The computer was in here all day with the document open - anyone could have interfered with it,’ Elliot’s voice was getting louder. He looked at his wife. ‘I might have hoped that you would keep an eye on it for me. You knew how important that work was.’
‘I couldn’t help but keep an eye on it, Elliot!’ she replied hotly. ‘It was in the way, wires trailing everywhere! I had to work round it all day. But I’m so afraid of the damn thing I didn’t even dare to put it away. So I certainly didn’t touch it and I certainly didn’t see anyone else touch it. Of course I wouldn’t have allowed it, if I had.’
Belinda’s failure to accept responsibility, to back him up, pushed Elliot over the edge. ‘You’re afraid of your own shadow you stupid woman! A complete waste of space. I might have known I couldn’t rely on you!’
‘Elliot!’ James and Simon cried out in unison.
Elliot turned and attempted to climb out from behind the bench. As he did so Roger, unnerved by the shouting, rushed at him with a snarl and snapped at his exposed ankle. Elliot kicked out at the dog and caught him on the shoulder, unbalancing himself in the process so that he half lay along the narrow bench. The dog retreated, yelping.
‘Oh Roger! Poor pet. Come here to Mumsy,’ Muriel cried out in alarm.
Elliot’s struggle to right himself sent the bench crashing onto its side. When he gained his feet his face was choleric and his fine hair was damp with perspiration.
‘We all need to calm down.’ Simon gave Elliot a hard look.
‘Oh here we go, the closing of the family ranks,’ Elliot sneered, white-lipped. He began to gather up his papers. A pulse in his temple throbbed furiously and his hands were shaking.
‘What else do you expect, when you speak like that?’ Simon’s blood was soaking through the kitchen towel. He had his hand cupped underneath it. Elliot’s targets were narrowing. He stabbed again at the weakest link. ‘It was sitting here all afternoon and evening,’ Elliot exclaimed, addressing Belinda once more. He waved a sheath of papers emphatically as he spoke; a fleck of spi
ttle clung to the corner of his mouth. ‘You MUST have seen something!’
‘I wasn’t sitting here all afternoon and evening!’ Belinda cried. ‘I went out into the garden for an hour with Mum and then, when I came back, all hell was let loose and you were nowhere to be seen.’ She kneaded and wrung at the tea towel, her nervous hands fluttering like trapped birds. She felt them - his anger and accusation - looking for a home, somewhere to land. The instinctive impulse she always felt at times like these - to manifest it, to bring it into being - was strong, almost overwhelming.
‘And in any case,’ Simon put in, ‘you’ve been working on those figures for days, on and off, in different places. There’s nothing to say that the mistake happened on Saturday. It could have been at any time.’
‘You know,’ observed James conversationally, gently taking the tea towel from Belinda and folding it deftly, ‘the apportionment of blame is often a futile exercise. In fact it can be a serious distraction. The incorrect figures evidently have serious consequences, Elliot. If you need any support or assistance in dealing with them, I do hope you’ll let us know.’ He put his hand under Belinda’s elbow and guided her across the room, away from Elliot, to the sink at the back of the room. He spoke in a tone quite loud enough for Elliot to hear, making it plain that the subject of his calculations was firmly closed. ‘I think Simon’s going to need a plaster, Belinda. Is the first aid box under here? I thought it was. Oh look! Quite comprehensive! A cornucopia of medicaments, eh? Simon, let me see that finger.’ Simon joined them by the sink. The three of them huddled over Simon’s finger while Belinda fussed with gauze and plaster. They all had their backs to Elliot. He was left alone at the table with his laptop and his nonsensical line forty-five.
Muriel stroked Roger who had retreated underneath her chair and was trembling. She wished Les was there. Her exposure to this family row had shocked and unnerved her but good manners called for her to fill the silence. ‘I had no one to blame but myself, over the puzzle,’ she said sagely, to no one in particular. ‘As the Chaplain said only last Sunday, ‘whenever we point a finger of accusation, there are three fingers pointing back at us.’
✽✽✽
James had kept the ladies well supplied with drinks and stoked their fire into a merry blaze. Heather had produced scented candles and a dish of small pebbles and crystal beads which she had placed close at hand on the hearth. ‘They produce a positive aura,’ she said. Whether assisted by the crystals or not the warmth of the fire and the glow of good gin and tonic thawed them considerably.
‘I suppose,’ Ruth admitted presently, ‘that I have just got out of the habit of keeping an eye open for little ones.’ It was as close as she was going to come to an apology or to taking any responsibility for Starlight’s accident in the gift shop. Apart from the candles and the firelight there was no illumination in the room. She was sitting in one of the armchairs, her legs over the arm, her face at an oblique angle to the others. She had a strong sense of the potential of the occasion for candour but it was a struggle with Miriam being there; she just couldn’t get over her notion of Miriam as an intruder.
Heather sighed. She was sitting cross-legged on the hearth rug. Her hair shone like gold in the light of the fire. ‘It was wrong of me to expect the girls to watch her, I suppose. They’re only children themselves. Rachel has been good with her, though; I must say that.’
‘It was a shame that Rachel didn’t come,’ Miriam remarked, sipping her drink, ‘she needs including as much as possible.’ Then, referring to the afternoon’s incident, she added, ‘As you know, I haven’t a maternal bone in my body, so I’m of no use at all in those situations.’
‘You do very well with Simon’s three,’ Ruth forced herself to say; it was like pulling her own teeth.
‘No, no,’ Miriam shook her head. ‘I’m much too selfish, as you well know but, in the maddening McKay way, are too polite to say. I do what needs to be done for them in practical ways if Simon isn’t around, and I’m happy to spend time with them - they are nice children. But I neither offer nor encourage emotional attachment. There’s no point.’
Ruth and Heather both looked up at her. Heather gave a confused little laugh. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh,’ Miriam looked, for a moment, rather uncomfortable. She placed her empty glass down on the table carefully and then took it up again and ran her fingertip around its rim. ‘Family ghosts, for one; April’s shoes are just too big. I feel her presence here amongst you all like Banquo’s ghost. I know I don’t measure up.’ She shrugged and smiled, ruefully. ‘And as I said, I’m too selfish. I’m not ready for the unspoken but very real expectations of sacrifice and deference to the greater good.’
Heather laughed again, more shrilly. ‘Surely, Simon and the children wouldn’t be such a hard project to consider taking on?’
‘From my point of view it would be a very unequal bargain I’m afraid. Four of them, not to mention all the rest of you, and only one of me. I can’t fight you all.’
‘You wouldn’t need to fight us!’ Heather said, ‘isn’t that the whole point?’
‘But I like being one on my own, Heather. I’m not a team player.’
Ruth and Heather digested Miriam’s revelation with difficulty. They looked at each other, almost speechless.
‘So... you don’t plan to marry Simon, then? Or to stay with him at all?’ The sisters were devastated for their poor brother, who was to be abandoned once more.
‘Not in the long term, no. But I don’t plan on leaving either, for the time being, so don’t make this into more than it is. Simon’s attention is focused on the here and now and that’s the way I want it to stay.’
Ruth stared into the fire, adjusting her resentment of Miriam’s intrusion into pique at her reserve. Could she possibly consider herself too good for the McKays? Then Miriam stood up and collected her jacket from the back of her chair. ‘Let me just say this though. I was thinking about all of this earlier today. The conclusion I came to is this: I have a choice. I can choose to become a member of this family or not. But I’m not the only outsider here and the others don’t have the luxury of choice. Rachel doesn’t and neither does Starlight. Actually, family is a simple question of legal identity, and unless you legitimise Starlight’s standing - which, as we both know, Heather, is going to be easier said than done – it’ll become an issue, like it is for Rachel. They’re kindred spirits, those two. They’re in the same boat.’
When she had gone, Ruth said, ‘Do you think it’s an issue for Rachel?’
Heather shrugged. ‘If you have to ask...’
Ruth observed, as though on an unrelated topic, ‘It seems to me your Social Worker has done a very poor job of preparing you for parenthood. What kind of support are you getting?’
‘I’ve been having chakra therapy, Reiki and crystal healing till I’m blue in the face.’
Ruth made an impatient gesture. ‘From Social Services, I meant.’
‘Oh well,’ Heather looked away. ‘None, really. We haven’t really gone in for all that.’
‘Surely Social Services have to be involved? There must be questions of medical history to go into, as well as the legalities…’
‘No,’ Heather prevaricated, ‘not... not necessarily.’
✽✽✽
Belinda looked at her watch. It was after six. The kitchen table was spread with food and James had wrapped knives and forks in napkins. Simon had opened wine and set glasses on the worktop. Elliot had taken himself off somewhere in a fit of extreme peevishness, leaving James to lift the laptop, stubbornly left on the table, onto the dresser for her, before taking Simon off for a game of snooker.
‘Everything is ready,’ Belinda announced heavily. ‘I think we’d better eat.’
Mary had placed Starlight in her highchair and was feeding her with diced tomato and morsels of quiche. Starlight held a slice of garlic bread in her fist and the butter was running down her wrist and soaking up her sleeve. She sucked at it in betwee
n mouthfuls, her eyes large and solemn. ‘I hope your dad’s alright,’ Mary said, placing a shred of ham on Starlight’s tray. ‘There. That’s a good girl. Eat it up, now. It’s time for his tablet. He isn’t used to being without me for such a long time.’
‘Rob says they went out hours ago. I don’t suppose you know June’s mobile number? Or Les’?’
‘No. Do they have mobile telephones?’
Muriel, in the easy chair by the Aga, opened her mouth and then shut it again. She had had two quite large sherries, she told herself, and must be careful.
‘I think we’ll have to eat,’ Belinda said again, hopelessly. She found people being late for food incredibly annoying. ‘There comes a point when re-heated lasagne becomes dried-up lasagne. Muriel, I wonder if you would mind just letting people know that dinner is ready?’
‘No, not at all.’ Muriel removed her spectacles and folded up a shirt she had been mending, placing it with some other clothing which had needed some minor repairs. ‘Good thing I brought my sewing case,’ she muttered to herself as she tottered from the room, Roger in close pursuit.
Belinda and Mary were alone in the kitchen. It was ironic really, that having hoped for groups and gatherings to characterise the week, all Belinda wanted now was time alone or exclusive, one-on-one conversation. The crowd of hungry, clamouring relations, the menu, the agenda, the list of practicalities which had seemed to her, two days ago, to embody family, were an annoying distraction now from what had emerged to be at the heart of it all. She had been caught up in the packaging instead of enjoying the content. She moved across the kitchen towards Mary and said, ‘Mum, what you mentioned earlier, about Dad?’ Mary nodded and placed a quarter of hardboiled egg onto Starlight’s tray. The baby chased it around with her grasping thumb and index finger; it slithered from her grasp.
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