Since a card had at last come from Granny with her new address I could now send off the silk scarf I’d bought her. I gave Mrs D. her card and posted the Wrekins’ and Mrs Peach’s through their letter boxes on the way home, which pretty well ended my festive preparations. I’d already got one of those doggy stockings full of treats for Bess.
For myself I’d bought a pretty and voluminous Laura Ashley nightdress, which should cover all eventualities, even ones as large as mine.
The spare bed is made, the radiator on. It still looks a bit bleak, but I don’t want to encourage Mother (not that she needs it). But she’ll have to think again: this room is earmarked for the nursery.
By late afternoon I’d done everything except take Bess for a decent walk, but I felt so tired it was as if I was wading through a lake of treacle.
Bob was still pottering about in the garden, having come back, for some reason. He comes and goes, I hardly notice any more, and has made himself a cosy little den in the garden shed. So I asked him if he could possibly take the stupid bitch for a walk, payment at the usual rates, and he went off with her quite happily.
It was two hours before they came back, both muddy and happy, and Bess exhausted, and she lay on the mat in front of the Aga snoring once I’d cleaned her up. The puppies fell on her as if they’d been abandoned for a week, but she couldn’t have cared less if they’d all vanished in her absence.
At four, a parcel arrived containing a strange, hand-knitted baby jacket constructed by Granny from hard woollen knots, like some miniature instrument of torture. Still, the thought was there. A brief note assured me all was well, and not to let Mother batten on to me like a leech.
As I folded it up, I heard a car draw up outside and, sure enough, it was a taxi bearing the maternal leech.
Decanted at the door with one enormous suitcase and a collection of clinking canvas holdalls, she demanded that I pay the taxi driver, since her purse was at the bottom of her handbag.
That settled, she kissed me, clasped my unwilling hands in hers and looked me up and down, all dewy-eyed. ‘My little girlie isn’t so little any more! And to think I’m to be a grandmother at my young age!’
There didn’t seem to be any polite reply to this, so I suggested she take her case up to the spare bedroom and then we could have a hot drink.
Mother waited for me to pick up the suitcase, but when I took hold of the carriers instead she sighed and trudged upstairs after me, chipping the paint with the corners all the way up.
Over coffee in the sitting room, where she sat as far from Toby’s cage as she could (the antipathy was mutual: Toby had become morose and silent as soon as he set his beady eyes on her), she launched into a diatribe against Granny and ‘that scheming nurse’. Pausing to draw breath, she took a sip from her cup and pulled a face. ‘What type of coffee is this, dear? It has a most peculiar taste.’
‘It’s Coffette, “wholegrain goodness in a cup”. I’ve gone off coffee – I don’t think the Incubus likes it.’
‘The what, dear?’
‘The current tenant of my womb.’
‘That’s a very strange way of putting it, Leticia!’
‘Pregnancy is a very strange state to be in. Suddenly there are two of us in here, and one keeps dictating what the other should eat and drink. Didn’t you find that strange, when you were expecting me?’
She shifted uncomfortably: ‘Not at all – it’s all completely natural.’
‘So’s death, but no one says you have to enjoy that.’
‘Really, I can’t think what’s got into you lately, Leticia.’
I looked at her, all ruffled plumage, and decided to clear the air once and for all. ‘Mo— Mummy, Granny’s said one or two things lately that did make me wonder if – well, whether I really
am
your natural daughter?’
She bridled angrily: ‘That woman never liked me! What has she been saying? Just because I didn’t look pregnant when they left – they were away months – and I was one of those rare, rare cases where I didn’t know I was expecting until you actually arrived: such a surprise!’
‘Was I? But why did you leave Father just after he’d recovered from the mumps and go off to Cornwall by yourself?’
‘Just a holiday. I was exhausted with all that nursing. Then poor Daddy had to rush down and bring us back. Now, Leticia, I really don’t want to discuss it further. You should really allow for Granny’s strange sense of humour. It’s very naughty of her to say that sort of thing to you.’
She gathered her ruffled plumage together huffily. ‘You are my very own little girl. Now, let’s just forget the whole silly thing, shall we, and talk about more important issues. How is poor James managing alone? We must see if we can clear up this teeny tiff over Christmas – the Season of Goodwill, you know!’
‘Poor James is infrequently alone, and it would take more than the spirit of Christmas to make me wish to resume our marriage. A frontal lobotomy, perhaps.’
‘A
what
, darling?’
‘Never mind. Now, understand this once and for all, Mother: I’m perfectly happy without James and I’ve no wish ever to live with him again. Any attempt to meddle will only lead to your having to go home early. Right?’
Sniffling, she dabbed at her nose. ‘I only want what’s best for you both – and the poor little baby!’
‘I know what’s best. If you want to see James I’ll give you the Wrekins’ phone number and you can go there, or—’
‘Where’s the TV?’ she interrupted. ‘There’s something I want to watch in twenty minutes.’ She peered about, as if it might be hiding behind the sofa, waiting to spring out. ‘Is it in the kitchen?’
‘No. I haven’t got one.’
‘Don’t be silly – of course you have. Everyone has one.’
‘Not me. I did have a little rented one, but I decided to economise and do without it. But I’ve got the radio.’
‘You are joking, aren’t you?’ she asked doubtfully.
‘No. I really haven’t got one.’
‘But – Christmas, Leticia! I’ll miss all the films and everything! And what shall I do without it?’
‘I don’t usually have any problems. I’m doing a lot of writing in the evenings because I’m determined to finish two novels before the baby arrives.’
‘But my programme starts soon! Really, you might have thought about your mother. Can’t you hire one? I think—’ She broke off as footsteps trod heavily round the house and Bess, who was in the kitchen, howled mournfully, like the Hound of the Baskervilles. ‘What’s that?’ She looked like a frightened ferret with gold-rinsed hair.
‘Only James. I’m letting him carry on using the transmitter in the Shack until he can move it.’
‘James is
here
? In the garden? Oh, then perhaps I could just pop out to say hello?’
I pointed her in the right direction and off she tottered in her high heels. Then I went up and got on with my typing, and it was quite some time before I resurfaced to the sound of voices in the house … and I’d
warned
her not to invite James in without permission!
But when I flung open the door to the sitting room I found her alone, watching a small portable television.
‘Ssh!’ she whispered without getting up.
‘Where on earth did you get that from?’
The credits came up and she sighed and turned. ‘Those kind people James is staying with insisted I borrow the TV from the children’s playroom over Christmas. So sweet!’
‘Oh, really, Mother!’ I protested, but there wasn’t anything I could do – it would look peculiar if I snatched it back from poor Mother and marched back with it. I suppose it is kind of the Wrekins, and it certainly kept her quiet for the rest of the evening, especially after I got the bottle of sherry out. Whenever I left the room, the level sank.
Unsurprisingly, she slept late next morning (she’s drinking even more than I thought, which is rather worrying), and came down yawning and weary-eyed at eleven thirty.
She sat down heavily at the kitchen table, then gave a sudden gasp and straightened, gazing wide-eyed out of the window. ‘Good heavens, there’s a man in your garden –
cavorting
!’
‘It’s only Bob,’ I soothed, handing her a cup of tea and two aspirins (her chosen breakfast), ‘the gardener. He spends a lot of time here just pottering about.’
‘But is he all right?’ she quavered. ‘He’s laughing and talking, and there’s no one else there.’
‘He’s just a bit – wanting, but terribly nice. I couldn’t manage without him.’
‘He’s mental!’ she shrieked, clutching her nylon housecoat to her throat. ‘You’ve employed him just to spite me. You know I can’t stand anything wrong with people –
nothing
! You and Granny – both out to spite me …’
‘Don’t get in a state, Mother. Bob’s been working for me for months; I didn’t hire him because you were coming. And he’s just a bit simple and perfectly harmless. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
As if to refute this statement, Bob swanned up to the kitchen door and pressed his nose to the glass. Mother slid off her chair and retreated, step by step, with her unwavering, bloodshot eyes fixed on him, until she fetched up against the dresser, rattling all the cups.
‘Don’t let him in!’
‘Oh, really, Mother!’ I said, exasperated, and opened the back door. ‘Hello, Bob. Do you want a cup of tea?’
He proffered a bouquet of Brussels sprouts. ‘Going home now. Mum says I mustn’t come tomorrow. Father Christmas is coming instead!’ He gave a great guffaw of laughter.
‘That’s right, Bob – no one works on Christmas Day.’ (Except all those women cooking, serving and clearing up meals, of course – but that’s all natural, like childbirth.) ‘Off you go, then, but first here’s a little Christmas present for the dogs.’ I handed him two small parcels containing rawhide bones. ‘And this one’s for you, but don’t open it till tomorrow.’
I tucked his present into his capacious coat pocket (a
Beano
annual and a box of Edinburgh rock) along with the envelope of wages, and off he trotted.
Mother emerged cautiously. ‘Is he gone? Really, Leticia, I can’t have him coming round while I’m staying here. You’ll have to get rid of him.’
Oh, Mother: how you play into my hands, I thought.
‘Certainly not. There are a few little things I want him to do about the house next weekend, since he can’t do an awful lot in the garden when the ground’s so hard.’
‘Inside?’ she quavered. ‘But not while I’m here?’
‘Oh, no – but you did say you were going home before next weekend, didn’t you?’
‘Anyone would think you were dying to get rid of me,’ she sniffled. ‘You’re an unnatural child. Poor James – my heart bleeds for him!’
‘Does it? Perhaps you ought to go round and commiserate with him this afternoon, then. I’ve a few last things to get from the shop, and then I must take Bess out before it snows.’
She looked doubtfully up at the sky. ‘Do you think it will? Perhaps I ought to put my boots on.’
‘Do. And perhaps you could give James this parcel.’
‘Oh, Leticia! Can it be that your heart is relenting towards him? Is this a peace offering?’
‘No, it’s three pairs of woollen socks, so don’t go all dewy-eyed. He’s very hard on the heels, and I don’t suppose his bit of crumpet will have bought him anything practical.’
‘He hasn’t got a – a bit of crumpet, dear! That’s all finished,’ she assured me earnestly. ‘He was just trying to make you jealous, and that cheap girl threw herself at him. And now she keeps pestering him!’
‘If she’s there, get her to give you her version of events. That might be interesting. Wish James a Happy Christmas from me.’
‘Is that all? No message about the baby?’
I shrugged, then patted my huge and ever-expanding bump. ‘Obviously it’s still there. What else is there to say?’
‘So hard!’ she murmured sadly, trailing away in yards of ruffled lilac nylon. ‘So hard!’
Spurning my offer of lunch, she tottered off as soon as she was dressed, wearing a simulated mink jacket (or ‘stimulated mink’, as Granny always put it), black spike-heeled Cossack boots, dangly earrings and a peevish pout. Apart from the scragginess of the legs, she looked like a prosperous tart.
Right after she’d gone two parcels addressed in Granny’s hand arrived, one for Mother, the other for me. Mine felt like a book, and there was another brief epistle inside the brown-paper wrapping:
‘Dear child, I hear Valerie is with you. Don’t let her hang round your neck like an albatross,’ she wrote, rather bafflingly.
An albatross?
‘
Settled in here and Rose potting’, she continued – or was that ‘potty’? The handwriting was a bit spidery
.
‘District nurse will do, but local doctor another body-snatcher. Your affectionate Grandmother.’
Well! Sighing, I examined the rest of my post, which included a big, expensive glossy card from the Wrekins. I’d pushed my cheap little card through their door. Nothing from Fergal – but then, I hadn’t sent him one because after I’d written it I wasn’t sure whether I should have put Nerissa’s name in it too.
Right at the bottom of the heap was an invitation to take the written part of the driving test early in the New Year, so I’d better mug up the Highway Code.
Fergal: December 1999
‘Beelzebub in our Midst!
says Miss Louie Carter of Lower Nutthill,
well known for her previous campaign for
compulsory castration …’
Nutthill District Advertiser
You know, I really didn’t think I was that bad! (Though I admit to having been called worse in the past.)
Does seem unfair, though, when just lately I’ve been trying to do the right thing regarding Tish.
Nerissa’s been out and about with James a few times, looking so pleased with herself that she must think I’m jealous. I’m not, I just hope this isn’t hurting Tish too much, but she must already know that he often has this other girlfriend round at the flat he’s using anyway, because according to Mrs Deakin the whole village knows.
Tish looks even more beautiful pregnant, but fragile, and she needs help, whatever she says …
Thinking about Fergal must have conjured him up, for he appeared half an hour later – and for once, thank goodness, I didn’t look a total mess! I was wearing green cord trousers, a long green shirt and my hair fastened back with a silver slide.