Authors: Joanna Trollope
‘Tam—’
‘Well,’ Tamsin said, ‘she ought to be told. She’s got a right to know.’
Amy turned to look across the kitchen at Chrissie. Chrissie was holding a notebook and an absurd pen with a plume of shocking-pink marabou frothing out of the top.
‘Mum?’
Chrissie nodded slowly.
‘I know—’
‘But Dad wouldn’t want that!’ Dilly said. ‘Dad never spoke to her, right? She wasn’t part of his life, was she, he wouldn’t have wanted her to be part of – of—’ She stopped. Then she said angrily, ‘It’s nothing to do with her.’
Amy stood up and drifted down the kitchen again. Chrissie
watched her, dark hair down her back, Richie’s dark hair, Richie’s dark Northern hair, only girl-version.
‘Amy? ’
Amy didn’t turn.
‘I shouldn’t have mentioned her,’ Tamsin said, ‘I shouldn’t. She’s no part of this.’
‘I hate her,’ Dilly said.
Chrissie said, making an effort, ‘You shouldn’t. She couldn’t help being part of his life before and she’s never made any claim, any trouble.’
‘But she’s
there
,’ Dilly said.
‘And,’ Amy said from the other end of the kitchen, ‘she
was
his wife.’
‘Was,’ Tamsin said.
Chrissie held the notebook and the feathered pen hard against her. She said, ‘I’m not sure I can quite ring her—’
‘Nor me,’ Dilly said.
Tamsin took a tiny mobile phone out of her kimono pocket and put it on the table.
‘You can’t really just
text
her—’
Chrissie made a sudden little fluttering gesture with the hand not holding the notebook. She said, ‘I don’t think I can quite do this, I can’t manage—’ She stopped, and put her hand over her mouth.
Tamsin jumped up.
‘Mum—’
‘I’m OK,’ Chrissie said. ‘Really I am. I’m fine. But I know you’re right. I know we should tell Margaret—’
‘And Scott,’ Amy said.
Chrissie glanced at her.
‘Of course. Scott. I forgot him, I forgot—’
Tamsin moved to put her arms round her mother.
‘Damn,’ Chrissie whispered against Tamsin. ‘Damn. I don’t—’
‘You don’t have to,’ Tamsin said.
‘I do. I do. I do have to tell Margaret and Scott that Dad has died.’
Nobody said anything. Dilly got up and collected the mugs on the table and put them in the dishwasher. Then she swept the biscuit crumbs and bits into her hand and put them in the bin, and the remaining packet in the cupboard. They watched her, all of them. They were used to watching Dilly, so orderly in her person and her habits, so chaotic in her reactions and responses. They waited while she found a cloth, wiped the table with it, rinsed it and hung it, neatly folded, over the mixer tap on the sink.
Chrissie said absently, approvingly, ‘Thank you, darling.’
Dilly said furiously, ‘It doesn’t matter if bloody Margaret knows!’
Chrissie sighed. She withdrew a little from Tamsin.
‘It does matter.’
‘Dad wouldn’t want it!’
‘He would.’
‘Well, do it then!’ Dilly shouted.
Chrissie gave a little shiver.
‘I’d give anything—’
‘I’ll stand beside you,’ Tamsin said, ‘while you ring.’
Chrissie gave her a small smile.
‘Thank you—’
‘Mum?’
Chrissie turned. Amy was leaning against the cupboard where the biscuits lived. She had her arms folded.
‘Yes, darling.’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘What—’
‘I’ll ring her,’ Amy said. ‘I’ll ring Margaret.’
Chrissie put her arms out.
‘You’re lovely. You’re a doll. But you don’t have to, you don’t know her—’
Amy shifted slightly.
‘Makes it easier then, doesn’t it?’
‘But—’
‘Look,’ Amy said, ‘I don’t mind phones. I’m not scared of phones, me. I’ll just dial her number and tell her who I am and what’s happened and then I’ll say goodbye.’
‘What if she wants to come to the funeral?’ Dilly said. ‘What if she wants to come and make out he was—’
‘Shut up,’ Tamsin said.
She looked at her mother.
‘Let her,’ Tamsin said. ‘Let her ring.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ Tamsin said. ‘Let her do it like she said and then it’ll be done. Two minutes and it’ll be done.’
‘And then? ’
‘There won’t be an “and then”.’
Amy peeled herself off the cupboard and stood up. She looked as she looked, Chrissie remembered, when she learned to dive, standing on the end of the springboard, full of excited, anxious tension. She winked at her mother, and she actually smiled.
‘Watch me,’ Amy said.
M
ore than six decades of living by the sea had trained Margaret to know what the weather was doing, each morning, before she even drew back the curtains. Sometimes there was the subdued roaring that indicated wind and rain; sometimes there was a scattering of little sequins of light reflected across the ceiling from bright air and water, and sometimes there was the muffled stillness that meant fog.
There was fog today. When she looked out, she would see that the sea mist had rolled up the shallow cliffs, and filled the wide grassy oval in front of the crescent of houses in Percy Gardens, bumping itself softly against the buildings. There would be shreds and wisps of mist caught in the fancy ironwork of the narrow balcony outside her bedroom window, and in the crooked cherry tree in the front garden. There would be salty smears on the window glass and the cars parked along the crescent and on the front-door brass that needed, really, daily polishing. And there would be this eerie silence, a muted quality to all the usual morning noise of slammed front doors and car engines starting and the woman two doors down shouting at her dogs, who liked to start the day with a good bark.
Margaret got out of bed slowly and felt for her slippers
with her feet. They were good slippers: sheepskin, of enduring construction, as was her padded cotton dressing gown patterned with roses and fastened with covered buttons, and although the sight of herself as she passed the mirror on her bedroom wall caused her to pull a face, she knew she looked appropriate. Appropriate for a professional woman – not yet retired – of sixty-six living in a house in Percy Gardens, Tynemouth, with a double front door and a cat and a large stand of plumed ornamental grasses outside the sitting-room window.
She opened the curtains and surveyed the mist. It was ragged and uneven, indicating that a rising wind or strengthening sun would disperse it quite quickly. A seagull – an immense seagull – was standing just below her, on the roof of her car, no doubt intending, as seagulls seemed to enjoy doing, to relieve itself copiously down the windscreen. Margaret banged on the window. The seagull adjusted its head to indicate that it had observed her and intended to ignore her. Then it walked stiffly down the length of her car roof, and turned its back.
Margaret went down the stairs to her kitchen. On the table, wearing much the same expression of insolent indifference as the seagull, sat a huge cat. Scott had brought him home as a tiny, scrawny tabby kitten some eight years before, having rescued him from a group of tormenting children on the North Shields quayside, and he had grown, steadily and inexorably, into a great square striped cat, with disproportionately small ears and a tail as fat as a cushion.
‘I don’t particularly like cats,’ Margaret had said to Scott.
‘Nor me,’ he said.
They looked at the kitten. The kitten turned its head away and began to wash. Margaret said, ‘And I don’t like surprises either.’
‘Mam,’ Scott said, ‘this’ll stop being a surprise soon. You’ll get used to it.’
She had. Just as she had got used to a lot of other things, she got used to the kitten. Indeed, she realized how used to the kitten she had become when she found herself explaining to him that one of the main things about life that he should realize was that it consisted of, in fact, getting used to a great many things that were the result of other people’s choices, rather than one’s own. For the first year, the kitten was simply called the kitten. Then, as his bulk and solidity began to take shape as he grew, Scott christened him Dawson, after the comedian.
Dawson put out a huge paw now, as Margaret passed him on her way to the kettle, and snagged her dressing gown with a deliberate claw.
‘In a minute,’ Margaret said.
Outside the kitchen window, the sea mist had been diluted by having to slide up over the roofs, and the air here merely had a vague bleary look. The little paved yard – a patio, her neighbours preferred to call it – that passed for a back garden simply gave up in this kind of weather. Everything hung damply and dankly, and blackened leaves plastered themselves against surfaces, like flattened slugs. Margaret’s neighbour, on her left-hand side, had been infected by holidays in Spain, and had painted her patio white, inset with mosaic pictures made with chips of coloured glass and mirror, and hung wrought-iron baskets on the walls which were intended to spill avalanches of pink and orange bougainvillea. But bringing abroad back to Tynemouth was not Margaret’s way. Abroad was abroad and the English North was the English North. What was unhappy growing beside the North Sea shouldn’t, in her view, be required to try.
She made tea for herself, in a teapot, and shook a handful
of dried cat food into a plastic bowl from a box which declared the contents to be designed for senior cats with a weight problem. She put the bowl on the floor. Dawson thudded off the table, inspected his breakfast with contempt and sat down beside it, not looking at Margaret.
‘You won’t get anything else,’ Margaret said. She poured out her tea. ‘You can sit there all day.’ She added milk. ‘It’ll do you no harm to fast for a day, anyhow.’
Dawson’s thick tail twitched very slightly.
Margaret picked up her tea, preparatory to going upstairs. ‘I’ll leave you to think about it.’
Dawson regarded the wall straight ahead of him. Margaret went past him, making a small detour to beyond claw-reach – how extraordinary it was, the intimate knowledge two living organisms who shared a house had of one another – and climbed the stairs. They had recently been recarpeted, with a good-quality wool-twist carpet in pale grey. Scott had suggested sisal, or seagrass. Margaret said she wasn’t a
bachelor
(she emphasized the word, as if to underline her opinion of Scott’s abiding single state, at the age of thirty-seven) in a
loft
, in
Newcastle
, and that what was appropriate to Percy Gardens was a hard-wearing wool twist in a neutral colour. She was pleased with the result, pleased with the resilience provided by the thick foam-rubber underlay. A new carpet, she reflected, had the same effect on a house as mowing a lawn in regular stripes did on a garden.
Dressing was not a matter of indecision for Margaret. For the twenty-three years or so that she had been on her own, she had kept to a number of habits which she had first devised as a way of keeping the grief and shock of being deserted at bay. Because she had, after Richie’s departure, gone on doing for other people what she had once done – and very successfully – for him, there was a requirement to dress with professional care on a daily basis. In the early
days without him, there was also of course an obligation to display an energizing measure of bravado, a need to show the world that her spirit had not been crushed, even if her heart had temporarily been broken. She had, from a week or two after he left, decided each night what she would wear the next day, got it out of her wardrobe, inspected it for stains or fluff, and hung it up for the morning, like a quilt put out to air. Sometimes, in the morning, she would feel inexplicably reluctant about the previous night’s choice, but she never changed her mind. If she did, she was afraid, in some mysterious superstitious part of her mind, that she would just go on changing and changing it until her bedroom was a chaos of discarded clothes, and she was a weeping, wild-haired wreck in the middle of it all.
Today her clothes were blue. Grey-blue. And then the pearls Richie had given her when Scott was born, which she wore almost every day, and the pearl earrings Scott had given her for her fiftieth birthday. He’d only been twenty-one then. He must have gone without a lot, to buy pearl earrings for her, and even now, when she considered what sort of sweet and clumsy atonement he was trying to make for his father’s absence, she felt unsteady about her earrings. So she wore them daily, even when she wasn’t wearing her necklace, as she wore the Cartier watch she had awarded herself when she was sixty. The watch had a tiny domed sapphire set into the knob that moved the hands. That sapphire was, for some reason, a source of great satisfaction to her.
Breakfast was equally not a matter for daily whim. Porridge in winter, muesli in summer, with a grated apple, more tea and a selection of vitamin capsules measured out into an eggcup Scott had had as a child for Easter one year, fashioned like a rabbit holding a small china basket. The rabbit’s ears were chipped, and the basket was veined with cracks, but its familiarity made Margaret grateful to it in the same way
that she was grateful to the Lloyd Loom laundry basket in her bathroom, inherited from her mother, and the gateleg table she and Richie had bought, after his first successful gig, their first piece of grown-up furniture, a portent of one day owning a house of their own instead of sharing someone else’s.
When Scott came out to Tynemouth at weekends – not often, but he came – he’d bring Continental breakfast pastries from Newcastle, and Colombian coffee, and cranberry juice. Dawson, who appreciated a good croissant, became quite animated at these breakfasts, leaning against Scott’s legs and purring sonorously. Today, he had ignored his breakfast. It was untouched and he had removed himself to his favourite daytime place, stretched along the back of the sofa in the bay window of the sitting room, to catch any eastern sun there might be, and also any passing incident. He would not, Margaret knew, involve himself in anything that required exertion, but equally, he liked to know what was going on.
Breakfast eaten, Margaret put her cereal bowl in the dishwasher, restored the rabbit to his shelf by the vitaminsupplement boxes, switched on the telephone answering machine and checked her bag and her briefcase for everything she would need during the day. In the hall, she paused in front of what Scott used to call the lipstick mirror. It reflected what it always reflected. Someone once – an ill-advised someone – had told her that she looked like the best kind of Tory supporter, groomed, capable, formidable. Margaret, born and bred a socialist in a cramped terraced cottage in North Shields, had been offended to her very marrow, and had said so. Her heroine, as she was growing up, had been Barbara Castle.