Mothers & Daughters (37 page)

The last time I'd been round to David's house for dinner, it was Jacky who'd let us in. Jacky had shown us through, made us drinks, talked about wedding venues and hire cars and menus, while David stood by the grand fireplace, overseeing the discussion, master of this hall. ‘Bloody lording it around,' Phil had said afterwards. And I'd replied, ‘Get a taxi back to Penny's; you're drunk.'

Even though I knew Jacky was long gone, it's hard to shift the idea that places stay as they were when you last saw them, so I was still relieved when David answered the door.

‘I did mean to tidy up,' he said.

A glance round his hallway showed only a pair of shoes on the parquet by the door and a folded sweater on the stairs. ‘Get away. You should see my place at the moment. House Clearances R Us.'

He took my coat. ‘There's a lot to be said for keeping busy. Ian's been stripping wallpaper.'

The large sitting room I remembered as a palette of calm, of pale lemon and white and oatmeal slub, where Jacky had placed a huge arrangement of lilies and gerbera on the table in front of the window, and set two or three of those church candles burning on the marble hearth. This evening there were none of these feminine traces, only papers spread across the table-top, a calculator and a receipt spike, and books and cups and whisky tumblers dotted about. ‘Tax return,' he said. ‘Demands a lot of surface area.'

‘And I had you down as one of those types who lines up their pencils in order.'

‘Think again,' he said.

While he was getting me a drink I walked around, taking in the detail. When Jacky was semi-resident, she'd streamlined this place so it was like a show home. Since then, the house had returned to what I guessed was its more normal
David-state, so instead of matching beige vases on the mantelpiece we had scissors and an iPod dock, a tube of Superglue, a glasses case. Towers of DVDs jostled his Art Deco clock; the Georgian slops bowl I'd admired now contained cufflinks and a bottle of tea tree oil.

And on the chimney breast, a selection of photographs I'd never seen before.

In the centre of the arrangement hung the largest picture, Ian the infant, lighter-haired and minus some teeth and with a face you'd almost have called chubby. Then, above that, primary school Ian, sporting a too-short trim and a wide, nervous grimace. Higher still was a sharper-featured Ian with imperfect teenage skin. They were glossy, well-framed images, yet there was something in the pitch of his eyebrows, or the apologetic hunch of his shoulders, that seemed to cancel out the smile every time. Even as late as his degree portrait, you could see the pinch of anxiety on his face. By the wedding, he'd managed to straighten his posture and relax his frown into the Ian I knew, or thought I knew. The wide eyes, the tightness of his lips, you'd just have put down to usual wedding-day jitters. Which, obviously, I did. I wanted him to be right so I made him right.

‘My gallery,' said David, setting down two wine glasses. ‘A work in progress.'

‘They weren't up last time.'

‘You've shamed me into sorting out my collection. Most of my photographs have been living loose in wallets or on my hard drive; it's about time I imposed some order.'

‘I treasure my albums,' I said.

‘I know you do.' He opened a drawer in the side of the table. ‘Here. I have to finish up next door, but in the meantime, you might be interested in these.'

He pressed a wad of pictures into my hand, and left me.

It was an intimacy I'd not been expecting.

The top few were the older, smaller type of prints with a white border. David I was able to pick out immediately, even though he was in short trousers and had his hair in a side parting. A family posed against a holly hedge, then on a beach, by a bridge, outside a church: mother, father, two boys and an older girl. And as I looked at each scene, I had the curious sensation of standing between two doorways, with David's life playing out in front of me and my own somewhere behind my back. So when I studied his parents' large Victorian house, I was also seeing Tannerside's old vicarage and the garden parties where my mother served the teas, and the ancient grey pony they used to have giving rides round the lower lawn; and then I thought of Pincroft itself, one Deco semi in a street full of the same, and how we wore our ordinariness proudly, like a union badge. David's father, with his broad shoulders and confident, lifted chin, seemed to emphasise my dad's slight frame, while the mother, elegant in pencil skirt and plain blouse, showed me that even back then, women in their thirties didn't have to look two decades older, the way my mother had done.

There was a class photograph much like my own, except all the pupils were boys and the teacher's face a whole lot sterner. It took me a moment to locate David because now (at fifteen – sixteen?) he wore his hair combed forward in a mop top. His hands in his lap, his shoulders back, he stared moodily at the camera, looking exactly like the kind of student who'd have been made a prefect and then demoted shortly afterwards.

My laughter at the next batch brought David into the room again. ‘OK,' he said, ‘what's so hilarious?'

I pointed at the shot of him standing in front of a farm gate, his hair lapping his collar, sideburns adorning his cheeks. ‘Tan jacket and a black polo neck? You look as though you're posing for an album cover.'

‘Meanwhile you were dressing like Sandy Denny. Go on, admit it, you used to wear shawls and Indian shirts.'

‘It was against the law not to in those days.'

The next picture was of a young woman standing on a canal tow-path. She was kitted out in jeans and a long coat and a crocheted hat, and carried a patchwork shoulder bag. ‘She's pretty. Is this Jeanette?'

‘No, pre-Jeanette. I was still in London then. The next one should be her.'

And there she was, his late wife, a fresh-faced brunette with bobbed hair, apple-cheeked and wide-hipped. Where her pinafore dress ended she had on maroon patent knee boots that reminded me of a pair I used to own myself. I don't know what I'd been expecting, but she still took me by surprise. ‘Gosh, she's young,' I said.

‘Twenty-one when I met her, twenty-four when we married.' He took the bundle of photos off me and began to move more swiftly through them. ‘Some of these I used to have on display, and then I took them down. It became . . . It's not as if I need them to remember. You don't forget the things that have mattered, do you? But perhaps I should put one or two up again.'

I wondered whether Jacky had asked for them to be packed away. Or maybe David felt that when Ian left home, it was time to move on. Duty to the present balanced against duty to the past.

‘This is our wedding . . . wedding . . . wedding again . . . reception, honeymoon – all these honeymoon. This is in Dumfries with my sister, at our mother's seventieth, my brother on his boat, Jeanette passing her driving test, Jeanette pregnant, Ian, Ian, Ian, Ian in his new uniform – he fell down the stairs the day that was taken and gave himself a bloody nose. This one's shortly after we discovered Jeanette was ill.'

We paused at a Christmas dinner scene. Ian was waving his
hands in the air, after some comic effect, while his mother clutched the stem of her wine glass and smiled at the camera. ‘Did she know it was serious?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘Did Ian?'

‘I thought he should be told, but Jeanette didn't agree. In the end I went against her. That was hard.'

‘You're better being honest in these situations, even with children.'

David nodded. ‘Thank you for saying that. I still believe it was the right course of action. Although my motivations were partly selfish, I confess.'

‘In what way?'

‘I appreciate this sounds terrible, but at the time I felt it wasn't fair of her to “escape” and leave me to deal with Ian. I know, it's a dreadful thing to admit. But I really truly believed she needed to shoulder some of his grief, not leave it all for me to mop up afterwards. He had questions I wouldn't have known how to answer. Do you understand? But that was cruel of me when she was so sick. I should have let her have her way.'

‘No,' I said. ‘I'm absolutely sure your instinct was correct. They needed to say a proper goodbye, didn't they? Ian would have been devastated if you'd denied him that.'

David only cleared his throat and flicked onto the next photo, but I knew for once I'd said just the right thing.

The next two dozen shots featured a succession of women. First it was a long-faced blonde who favoured ponytails and jeans, and who liked pub lunches and picnics and vintage car rallies. (‘Susannah,' said David.) She gave way to a plump, dark woman, older than him, with a motherly face and a hairstyle not unlike Jeanette's. In the first few pictures she was playing with Ian – beach cricket, hoisting him onto a tree
branch, bike riding together – and I began to think perhaps she'd been a nanny, or even that this was the sister, put on weight. But no, because here they were dressed up to the nines and he had his arm around her, and her beaming smile told me this was not a sibling embrace. (‘Fiona,' said David. ‘A Scot.') Then there was a Sloaney type, frilled collars and navy V-necks, slightly pronounced chin, who'd shared a Christmas with them and at least one family holiday. (‘Rachel,' said David.) Lastly we had Jacky, the lovely Jacky, immaculate even when she was crouched in between the geese and ducks by the Old Dee Bridge, holding a Value bread bag. Sometimes Sloaney Rachel appeared with them, and once or twice a fortysomething grey-blonde I recognised as Susannah, aged.

I wanted to say something like, ‘Great, good for you,' or ‘At least you weren't lonely,' or ‘Well, life's for living,' but however I tried to frame my words I sounded trite or, worse, sarcastic. Luckily, David summed up for me.

‘Yes, they were nice girls, and much-needed company at the time. Some of them are friends to this day.'

‘But not Jacky.'

‘Not Jacky.'

Or the other one, I thought.

He glanced at his watch. ‘I need to go and stick some broccoli on. Give me another five minutes.'

He took himself off again, leaving me to finish the photos alone.

From now on they were all of Ian: at a friend's wedding; pushing an elderly lady in a wheelchair; in sunglasses leaning against a white stone column; feeding a lamb; pointing at a tor; climbing into the basket of a hot air balloon; patting the roof of a blue Fiat Panda; waving from Chester city walls; in running gear; in university cap and gown; holding the hand of a girl with an oversized forehead.

And lastly, with Jaz. They sat outside the Rocket at a wrought-iron table, eyes screwed up against the dazzle of the whitewashed walls. Jaz must have been working that day because she was wearing an apron, but they were never very busy there and staff often used to come and sit with customers for a chat. Ian was lifting up a chunky mug, and Jaz had her head on his shoulder. Behind them bloomed bright baskets of geraniums.

Even though I'd anticipated coming across such a picture, the sight of her still safe in the past brought on a pang of pure agony.

‘Carol?' I heard David calling.

‘Coming.'

Just before I set them down, I turned the prints over and riffled through them to check the backs. I don't know what I was hoping, or fearing, to find. Every one turned out to be unmarked; he'd added not a word of commentary or identification anywhere. But then, I thought, why should he? I never needed such prompts either. I always remembered exactly what had been happening in all of mine.

We sat in his kitchen to eat.

‘This is nice,' I said, looking round me.

‘Stew or kitchen?'

‘Both.'

‘Jacky used to say the kitchen was dated. I suppose it is, but I don't honestly care as long as everything's clean and works.'

‘Quite right too.'

I wanted to say it was good he'd learned to cook, but I was worried that might come across as patronising. My head was still buzzing with his photographs, random scenes that I was struggling to place in their proper sequence. Which girlfriend had he liked the most? Who was it had ended each relationship,
and under what circumstances? Had any of them broken his heart?

‘OK, Carol?'

Worried he might somehow see inside my head, I caught at the first topic that floated past. ‘Why did you get stripped of your school prefect badge?'

David let out a short, yelping laugh. ‘How on earth did you know about that?'

‘You told me. When we were walking with Matty on the Moss.'

‘Did I? Good Lord. Now why would I have brought up that event, of all things?' He looked at me quizzically.

‘Hey, if you don't want to tell me, say so. But of course, now I'm imagining all sorts—'

‘I should make something up, then, something spectacular. It's going to be such a let-down.'

‘Oh, get on with it.'