‘Yah!’ he shouted. ‘Just a sec.’
She dug the ladle into the stew, and tipped a small portion onto Nicky’s plate.
Richard came in.
‘Who were you talking to?’
‘Oh. Andreas. Just a—’ He picked up the wine bottle which Sam had already uncorked. ‘Are you having some wine, Mummy?’ Richard hovered over his mother with the bottle.
Sam stared at her mother-in-law’s thin wrinkled face, with her make-up too thick and her hair elegantly coiffed, too black. She always dressed well in expensive clothes that were now slightly frayed, not because she could not afford new ones, or to have them mended, but because she simply wasn’t aware. It always seemed strange, his calling her Mummy. She wondered if Nicky would still be calling her Mummy when she was old like that.
‘Wine, Mummy? Would you like some wine?’ Richard repeated, louder.
‘Coffee, I think,’ she said. ‘Do you do espresso?’
‘We’re going to have lunch first,’ said Richard patiently, more patiently than usual.
His mother turned towards him. ‘Your father’ll have some wine, I expect. He’s late.’ She opened her handbag and scrabbled about in it, slowly, deliberately, warily, like a dog scratching away the earth over a hidden bone.
She pulled out a compact, clicked it open, and examined her lips. She took out a lipstick, and twisted the stem.
Sam and Richard exchanged a glance. His father had been dead for eight years.
‘Would you like some stew, Mummy?’
‘I’ll have a cigarette now, I think, darling.’
‘We’re going to eat first, Joan,’ Sam said, kindly but firmly.
Her mother-in-law frowned, puzzled.
‘Have you thanked Granny for your present?’ asked Sam.
Nicky looked forlornly at her. ‘I only got handkerchiefs.’
‘Handkerchiefs are jolly useful,’ said Helen.
‘Granny,’ said Nicky, turning to her. ‘We shot a pigeon.’
She rolled her tongue over her lips, then carefully put the lipstick back into the bag. She pulled out her cigarettes, and extricated one from the pack.
‘Mummy, we’re still eating,’ said Richard, irritated.
‘When’s his birthday?’ she said. ‘Sometime soon, isn’t it?’
‘Today,’ Sam said. ‘It’s today.’
Her mother-in-law frowned again and looked at her watch. ‘Usually home by now.’ She looked up at Richard. ‘Probably in a meeting.’
‘I’m sure he won’t mind if you start without him,’ said Sam. ‘Why don’t you have some stew?’
‘Pigeons are naughty. Daddy’s going to give me a gun when I’m – er – when I’m nine.’
‘Elbows off, Tiger.’ She turned to Richard. ‘Do you think we should call the Punch and Judy man? He should have been here by now. Said he’d be here by one.’
‘Looking forward to your party, Nicky?’ asked Helen.
‘Umm,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Yes.’
They heard the sound of a car and Sam looked out of the window. A small, elderly Ford pulled up. ‘Thank God,’ she said, hurrying out of the room, as if she was afraid he might change his mind and go away.
He stood apologetically on the front doorstep, an unassuming little man in a drab suit and a thick mackintosh, with two huge suitcases.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘So terribly sorry.’ He smiled, exposing a row of crooked rotting teeth, yellow and brown, and his breath was foul, as if he had been smoking a pipe. ‘My wife’s not well, I had to wait for the doctor.’ He looked afraid. There was fear in his eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Thank you. It’s one of those—’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m here to be cheerful, to make the party go.’ He smiled again and she could see he had been crying.
She felt a tug on her pullover and saw Nicky standing there.
‘This is the Punch and Judy man, Tiger.’
‘Hallo, young man. Happy birthday.’
Nicky looked suspiciously up at him.
‘Say hallo, Tiger.’ But Nicky said nothing. The man was thin and pale, with a slightly translucent skin; his head was almost bald on top, with a few strands pulled over and plastered down. He looked like a forgotten toy. ‘Do you want a hand with your bags?’
‘No, no, oh no, no, I can manage, thank you.’ He picked up the two enormous cases and staggered forward, breathing hard. Sam saw tiny beads of sweat on
his forehead, and she shivered suddenly. He made her feel uncomfortable. This little man who could make children laugh and scream and cry, this little man with his sick wife and his suitcases full of puppets.
What a life, she thought, what a life, to turn up every day on strangers’ doorsteps. Did he love children? Or was he weird? As she stared at him she felt afraid, as if the man was carrying death into her house, carrying it in his two big heavy suitcases.
Nicky was looking at her anxiously. He stretched up towards her and spoke in a quiet, conspiratorial voice. ‘Mummy, he doesn’t look like Punch and Judy.’
‘I’m sorry we’re a bit early.’
‘No, that’s fine, really.’ Sam smiled, staring at the woman, trying to think of her name. The wife of a City friend of Richard’s. They owned a stately pile somewhere near here.
‘It was very nice of you to invite Edgar.’
Sam looked down dubiously at the scowling child. A brat. It was stamped all over his face. ‘Delighted,’ she said.
‘I trod in cow shit this morning,’ Edgar said.
‘Darling!’ said his mother. ‘I don’t think Mrs Curtis wants to know about that.’
‘I’ll just get Nicky.’ Sam looked around. ‘Tiger! Come and meet your first guest!’
Helen appeared, holding Nicky gently by the arm, coaxing him along.
‘This is Edgar,’ said Sam.
‘Give him his present.’
Edgar thrust out a small package. ‘I trod in cow shit this morning.’
‘Edgar!’ said his mother.
‘What do you say, Nicky?’
Nicky went bright red. ‘Umm. Thank you very much. We shot a pigeon this morning,’ he added.
‘Shall we open that later, Nicky?’ said Helen, lifting the package. ‘We’ll put them all together so we don’t get in a muddle.’
‘Why don’t you show Edgar your presents, Tiger?’ said Sam. She smiled at his mother. ‘Would you like to come in!’
‘Thanks, no. Have to dash. Be back at six?’
‘OK. Bye.’ Sam closed the door.
‘I want to shoot a pigeon,’ Edgar said.
‘We’re having a party now, Edgar,’ she said. ‘You can come back one day and go shooting with Nicky and his father if you like.’
‘I want to shoot one now.’
‘Nicky has got a radio controlled car. Would you like to see that?’
The child stamped his foot. ‘Pigeon,’ he said. ‘Eeeeee, urrrrr, grrrmmmm.’ He sprinted off across the hall, then stopped and glared through the kitchen doorway. He marched in and across to Richard, who was reading a paper. ‘Urrr.’ He said. ‘Grrremmmm.’
Richard carried on reading.
‘Urrrr. Grrremmmmm.’
Richard glanced over the top of his paper. ‘Sod off,’ he said.
‘Urrrrr,’ said the child, screwing up his face. ‘Urrrr, urrrr. I want to shoot a pigeon.’
‘Ask her, she’ll take you.’ Richard nodded at his mother, who was studying her face in her compact through a stream of cigarette smoke, and carried on reading.
Edgar put up his hand and tugged the paper down sharply, ripping it. ‘I want to shoot a pigeon.’ He stamped his foot.
Richard shot out his hand and grabbed the boy’s ear.
‘Ow!’
Shoving the paper aside, he stood up, twisting his ear harder, and marched him out of the kitchen.
‘Owwwww! Arrrrrrr!’
He gave one final tweak for good measure.
‘Richard, what are you doing?’
‘Little bastard,’ he said.
Edgar stood in the hallway, bawling, as Richard walked back into the kitchen. Sam stormed in after him. ‘What have you done to that child?’
‘Little bastard tore my paper.’
‘Did you hit him?’
‘No, but I will do next time.’
The doorbell rang.
‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Three o’clock, it’s meant to start. Why are they all coming early? Can you shove the sausages in the oven? The bottom right-hand.’
‘I’ll put that little bastard in if he comes in here.’
‘Shall I get the door, Mrs Curtis?’
‘Thank you, Helen.’ She looked back at Richard. ‘Have you put the gun away?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s your mother doing?’
‘She wants to know when we’re having lunch. Bloody daft bringing her here.’
‘It is her grandson’s birthday.’
‘You’d better remind her.’
‘She’s not completely gaga. She did buy him a present, and a nice card.’
‘I wanna go home,’ Edgar bawled.
‘Hi Sam!’ a voice called. Sam went back into the hall.
‘Vicki!’ She dashed over. ‘Come in.’
‘I’ve got to collect Peter from sailing.’
‘Hallo, Willie.’ Sam looked down at the slightly lost-looking child.
‘Thank you very much,’ she heard Nicky whisper, holding another brightly coloured package.
‘Rowie!’ Nicky’s godmother.
‘Sam! Mmmn!’ Their cheeks collided and they each blew kisses out into the air.
‘How are you, darling?’
‘Fine. Great.’ Sam tousled the hair of Rowie’s stern little boy.
‘Hallo, Justin.’
‘Hallo, Auntie Sam.’
‘This is daft, Sam. We live a mile away from each other in London, almost in the next-door village down here, and the only time we see each other is at kids’ parties! How about lunch this week – Tuesday any good?’
‘Sure. Why don’t we have lunch at the club? A swim and a sauna? They have a good salad bar now.’
Another car was pulling up. Chaos; she felt bewildered for a moment. Then she saw the Punch and Judy man come down the stairs and walk through into the drawing room, quietly, meekly, gliding. Like a ghost, she thought.
‘Sausage, Celia?’
The little girl raised her pig-tailed head. ‘I don’t eat sausages. My mummy says they’re common.’
Sam stared at her, flummoxed for a moment, then moved on down the table with the heavy tray, listening to the babble. ‘Sausage, Willie?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘I always have prawns at my parties,’ said Celia loudly, to no one in particular.
Richard followed, with a tray of hot quiche.
‘I don’t eat quiche,’ she heard Celia say.
‘You’ll get spots if you don’t eat quiche,’ he said.
She puffed up haughtily in her pink frock. ‘My mummy says I’m going to be very beautiful. I’m going to be a model.’
‘Are we having a film? Are we having a film?’ said an excited voice Sam did not recognise. She stared at Nicky at the head of the table, in an orange paper crown, fists sunk into a half-eaten burger, ketchup, and relish oozing out the sides of it, his face and new jumper streaked in the stuff, like a Jackson Pollock painting.
‘What film? What film?’
She looked at her watch. Just past four.
Babble. A child blew a plastic bugle. Another blew a low-pitched whistle, from which a strip of coloured paper uncurled. A little girl ran excitedly into the room, sat down and began whispering to her friend, who then rushed out. Sam saw the Punch and Judy man standing in the doorway, and she nodded at him.
‘OK, everyone! Punch and Judy time!’
There were excited squeals, and a couple of groans.
‘Can we all go next door, please.’
She herded them through into the drawing room and tried to get them seated on the floor in front of the candy-striped Punch and Judy stand. It was wobbling a bit and she could see the side move every few moments as the man shuffled around inside, sorting his things out. She watched it warily for a moment, traces of last night’s dream echoing around her head as she listened to the babble. Helen wandered through the kids, dishing out lollipops.
‘There’s a real man inside there.’
‘’Course there isn’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I looked.’
‘How could you look? You’re not tall enough.’
‘I bet I am.’
‘I bet you’re not.’
One small girl sat on her own, slightly away from the rest, with her hands over her eyes.
Sam went out into the kitchen. Her mother-in-law was staring into her compact mirror, caking more make-up onto her nose, a thin thread of smoke rising from a mound of lipstick-covered butts in the ashtray beside her.
‘Joan,’ Sam said, ‘the Punch and Judy’s about to start. Would you like to see it?’
‘Punch and Judy, dear?’ She frowned. ‘No, I think I’d prefer to stay in here. My lipstick’s a bit smudged.’
‘It looks very nice. I’m sure Nicky would like it if you came in.’
Her mother-in-law began to rummage in her bag again, the dog scratching through the earth for its bone.
There was a ripple of laughter from the drawing room. ‘See you in a minute.’ She walked across the hall, and paused in the doorway of the drawing room. The Art Deco clock on the mantelpiece caught her eye. Coming up to four-fifteen.
The time seemed familiar for some reason.
‘Oobie, joobie, joobie! Who’s a naughty boy, then?’
‘Oh no I’m not!’ squawked Punch, his soft pointed hat and hooked nose appearing over the top of the tiny stage.
‘Oobie, joobie, joobie! Naughty, naughty, naughty!’
The words sent a prickle of anxiety through her.
‘Oh no I’m not!’
‘Oh yes you are!’ shrieked Mrs Punch, dancing up and down in her gaudy frock.
‘Oh no I’m not!’
‘Oh yes you are!’
‘Come on children, I’m not naughty am I?’
‘Oh yes he is!’
Sam looked over the sea of faces, some grinning, some with lollipop sticks poking out of their lips. The girls in their party frocks, the boys in their shirts, mostly grubby already, and short trousers slightly dishevelled from the games. What sort of people would they become when they grew up? You could tell the meek and the assertive, the bullies and thinkers. Christ, they all had a long way to go before – before what? Before they could begin to understand? Look at me – I’m a grown up – thirty-two – and I don’t even begin to understand. Maybe life wasn’t about understanding at all? Maybe there was something else. We all charged through, looking in the wrong cupboards and missed the point. Would these children one day become old and baffled and still be opening and shutting cupboards? Rummaging through handbags for – cigarettes? For – the key to life? Like Richard’s mother in the kitchen? No, not any more. We’re entering the Age of Aquarius. It’ll all make SENSE. The new UNDERSTANDING.