Authors: Jane Wenham-Jones
âWell, then,' said Alicia at once. âPut us forward as mother and daughter and say you didn't know anything about the Randolph show.'
Cal shook his head. âI have my reputation to think of,' he said. âSome of us have principles and ethics. We don't knowingly mislead our viewers. Can you hold on a moment?'
Alicia pulled a face at his back as he walked away. âWanker!'
âHe's got a point,' I said, thinking how nice it was that he cared so much about the integrity of the programme. âIf someone saw us who'd watched
Rise Up with Randolph
they'd know we were pretending and he could get into terrible trouble.'
Alicia's face was pitying. âSo?'
âI've just had a word with Tanya,' Cal told me when he came back. He looked again at the skinny girl, who glowered. âAnd I think we might be able to use you for the next thing we've got on.'
I shifted self-consciously under his gaze.
âYou're smart and funny and sexy,' he continued. âAnd we've got some projects coming up that might really work with you involved â¦'
I stared back at him in disbelief. âReally?' I felt all fluttery inside.
Me? Projects?
âLook,' he was saying, âdo you have a card or something?'
âI could um â¦' I began to scrabble in my handbag, feeling around in the murky depths for something pen-shaped. My fingers closed round a tampon that had come out of its wrapper. âI might have some paper. Or the back of an envelope or something ⦠I'll just ⦠I've got rather a lot of things in here.'
I laughed awkwardly as I saw Alicia over his shoulder, shaking her head wonderingly at my ineptitude. I dug about a bit more. He moved a bit closer and appeared to be having a look too.
âEr no,' I said brightly, abandoning the search and trying not to feel flustered by his undeniable beauty at such close proximity. âI've never really needed ⦠I don't have a card.'
âWell, here's mine â¦' He pressed a small piece of cardboard into my hand, his skin brushing mine for a tiny moment, and pulled a silver pen from the back pocket of his jeans. âI can write your number down for now, but â' He looked up and gave me a long, slow smile. âI think it's time you got one â¦'
âI think it's time you did something about that bath.'
My mother opened the door wearing blue gingham overalls and brandishing the Dettox. âWhat on earth's happened to it?'
âIt's only hair colour,' I said, plonking my handbag onto the hall table and throwing my jacket over the newel post. âIs Stanley OK?'
âHmm,' she said. âGood thing I was here, that's all I can say. He's had some proper food and we've tidied up his bedroom â there were clothes on that floor that don't even fit him any more. He says you never give him vegetables â he's had carrots, swede, and broccoli tonight.' My mother breathed deeply and looked me up and down.
I smiled. Was she about to finally enquire how I'd got on? If I'd had a nice time? Whether I had passed the audition I'd told her about? It seemed not.
âAll very well for you gadding off, getting yourself on television,' she finished. âWhat about him?'
âIt's only been one day after school, Mum, and it sounds as if Stanley's had a really lovely time with you â'
âHmm.'
She turned and walked down the hall to the kitchen. I followed her.
âHe's all right, isn't he?'
She picked up the kettle. âBit quiet, I thought. Not his usual bubbly self at all.'
âMum, he's never been bubbly.'
âWell he's not himself,' she said darkly. âIs something going on at that school?'
âI don't think so,' I said uneasily. âLike what?'
âI don't know. Sounds like it's full of riff-raff to me. Shame you couldn't have got him into somewhere decent like the sort of place Conway Hall used to be. It's gone downhill, of course, since your brother left â¦'
âHighcourt is decent. It's one of the best schools in Kent.'
My mother sniffed. âIf you say so. But they don't do so well if there's girls there â puts them off. I remember the headmaster saying to me about Anthony. That boy could go to Oxford â¦'
I reached into the fridge for a bottle of wine, pouring myself a large glass and forbearing to point out that my brother spent most of his education behind the bike sheds at the girls' school up the road, where, far from ever wishing to go to a redbrick university, he'd been rather more interested in getting into the nearest bar.
âThey're only mixed in the sixth form,' I said. âAnd Stanley's doing very well. I'll just go and say goodnight.'
My mother peered into the teapot. âHe'll be asleep now. I sent him up early â it being a school night,' she added, as if I would have been too feckless to consider such things.
âI'll pop up and check.'
As I suspected, Stanley was sitting up, gripping a games console, a deep frown of concentration on his face. He looked up and gave me a brief smile. I perched on the edge on his bed and waited. After a few minutes of intense grunting and swatting of buttons, he let out a sigh of satisfaction and put the PSP down. âAre you going to be on TV?' he asked.
âMaybe, yes. Not on the cookery programme, I don't think, but maybe something else. Or perhaps on the cookery programme, but not with Alicia the way we thought. Someone's going to phone me.'
I felt a little flare of excitement at the thought of Cal writing down my number.
âWell done,' said Stanley doubtfully.
âHave you had a nice time with Grandma?'
âYeah, it was fine.'
âGood day at school?'
âIt was OK.'
âMuch homework?'
âNot really.'
âWell, you'd better go to sleep, darling. School tomorrow. Grandma,' I said, lowering my voice, âwas expecting you to be asleep already.'
âOK.'
I kissed the top of his spiky head.
âLove you,' I said, switching out the lamp and moving toward the door.
âYou too. Mum â'
âYes?'
âWhy did you call me Stanley?'
I turned back and frowned. âYou know why.'
âIt's a stupid name.'
It felt like a little stab in my stomach. âIt's a great name â why are you saying that?'
âWhy couldn't you call me something normal like Jack or Connor?'
âYou know why,' I repeated. âIt's after your grandad. Stanley Edward Meredith â hasn't it got a lovely ring to it? I can just see that on a brass plaque when you're a mega-famous lawyer or top surgeon keeping your old mother in the style she longs to become accustomed to.'
I laughed. Stanley didn't.
âIt's stupid,' he said again. âAnd I hate it.'
âWell,' I said calmly, although my intestines were now fluttering anxiously, âdon't say that to Grandma.'
âShe agreed with me,' said Stanley. âShe said, “I don't know why your mother called you that.” She said she wanted you to make it my second name â so I was Edward Stanley. That would have been much better. I could have been Eddie then â Eddie's quite cool. But she said you wouldn't listen.'
I felt a flush of rage go through me.
How dare she?
âWell you can change it when you're older,' I said, trying to keep my voice reasonable. âTell everyone you want to be called Eddie instead.'
Stanley shook his head. âI want to change it now.'
âIt would be a bit difficult now with school and everything.' I sat back down on the bed and reached out a hand to pat his dark form. âHas somebody been teasing you?'
âNo.' His voice was muffled.
I switched the lamp back on.
âReally?'
âA bit.'
âWhat have they been saying?'
Stanley rolled over to face the wall. âJust, you know, “Ooh, Stan-ley”. He put on a sing-song voice, stretching out the two syllables, but kept his head turned away from me.
âWell,' I said, trying to keep my voice light. âBoys are like that sometimes. They're just being silly. I expect some of the others get teased too, don't they?'
âNot about their names.'
âBut other things, eh?'
âSometimes.'
I stroked his shoulder. âWhen I was at school, people were always calling each other names. Charlotte used to be called Concorde because she had a big nose.'
Stanley turned on to his back and looked at me. âI've never noticed.'
âExactly. It doesn't seem big at all now â I think she sort of grew into it.' I gave his arm a squeeze. âAnd I had funny thick hair that used to stick up in all the wrong places,' I said.
âWhich you've now given to me,' said Stanley gloomily. âThanks, Mum.'
âYour hair's lovely,' I said. âIt's one of my favourite things about you. And if they're making silly comments about your name it's because they can't think of anything else to say.'
âThey call Danny Four-eyes.'
âThere you go, then.'
âAnd Billy's Ginger-carrot 'cos he's got ginger hair.'
I nodded. âThey used to call people that sort of thing when I was at school too'
âMichael's Tank,' Stanley continued, warming to his theme. âAlex is Rug Head 'cos his hair is like all over everywhere and Tyrone's Drainpipe 'cos he's so skinny â¦' He gave a sudden giggle. âAnd Kieron's called Burger Lips â¦'
I smiled at him. âYou see? They look for something to call everyone. In a way,' I said, âit's a sort of affection.'
âI don't think it is, Mum.'
âIt's similar,' I said firmly. âJust try to remember that, and also that it's not only you. Try to ignore it. People only tease to get a reaction and if you don't react they'll lose interest. The trick is to smile as if you don't care.'
Which is what I would have to do. I settled him back under the duvet and kissed him for a second time. Then I took a deep breath as I went back into the kitchen.
âDo you want a glass of wine, Mum?'
My mother was sitting reading the paper, a cup of tea in front of her. She didn't look up. âNo. Oh all right, go on then.'
âYou were up there a long time,' she said, as I put the glass in front of her. âI hope you didn't wake him up.'
âHe wasn't asleep.' I took a mouthful of wine. âWe were talking about his name. He seems to be suddenly quite upset.' I looked at her, wondering if she'd admit to her part in it.
My mother nodded, matter-of-factly. âWell, why
did
you call him Stanley? Edward's much nicer and it's not as if he even knew his grandfather!'
This sent such an unexpected pain through my solar plexus that for a horrible moment I could feel my chin wobbling. Why was I feeling everything so very intensely? What time of the month was it?
âI know,' I said tightly. âThat's why I wanted to give Stanley his name â you know that, Mum â you were there. God,' I went on, suddenly realising. âI can't believe that was more than 11 years ago.'
âTwelve soon,' said my mother briskly. âIt was 12
th
December.'
âI know when it was.' I could still see it clearly. My father propped up on pillows, his limbs like sticks, striped pyjamas hanging off his bone-thin frame. Face yellow-grey and exhausted. Nothing like the tall, strong, capable man he'd always been but still the same eyes fixed on mine. Trying to jolly me along.
âTell him to get a move on,' he'd said.
And I'd sat there huge and bloated, my baby wriggling round inside me, showing no sign of wanting to leave his comfortable home. âI'm doing my best,' I'd joked, though I was desperately close to tears. âCurry, hot baths, I've tried the lot â¦'
I didn't tell Dad that I'd even asked the consultant to induce me but he wouldn't. Said nature would take its course when nature was ready.
It did. Dad died 12 hours before Stanley was born. He tried to wait but he couldn't hang on any longer.
âI really wanted to put my baby in his arms,' I said, my voice full of emotion, my throat tight even after all these years. âI just wanted him to see.'
My mother made a fuss of taking her teacup to the sink and rinsing it noisily. âThat was him all over,' she said, âwasn't it? Always did have a rotten sense of timing.' She gave one of her sudden barks of brittle laughter, as if that might soften her words.
I swallowed hard, trying to get a grip. âI don't want you saying anything negative about Dad to Stanley,' I said. âI want Stanley to be proud of his name and who he was named after. He was a good father and he would have made a wonderful grandfather.'
My mother sat back down opposite me and pressed her lips together. âHmm,' she said, as if she didn't believe it.
I gritted my teeth. âHe would have loved Stanley and Stanley would have loved him.'
âHe was always difficult with your brother,' she said stubbornly. âAnthony was always such a good boy and your father could never say anything nice. Jealousy, that's what it was, because your brother went to university and is far cleverer than your father ever was â and he just couldn't stand it.'
Here we go again
. There was never any mileage in pointing out that my father was only trying to provide a bit of balance. Trying to temper the canonisation of my sainted brother by occasionally asking him to remove his head from his back passage. It was futile to say that his was simply a vain attempt to prevent my mother making the poor boy even more insufferable than he already was. But still I couldn't help the familiar rush of anger and frustration that ran through me whenever we had this conversation.
âHe was very proud of Anthony,' I said, as calmly as I could manage, considering that from the way I would have liked to tip the contents of the washing up bowl over her head, we must definitely have hit Day 21 again. âHe just had a different way of showing it from you.'
In other words, I added silently, he saw no reason to wait on his son hand and foot when that son was well into his 20s, nor bore all the neighbours with regular bulletins on his achievements.
âHumph,' said my mother loudly.
I was only just starting my second glass but the wine had hit my bloodstream with a vengeance and I knew I was in that slightly pissed, slightly reckless state where I opened my mouth first and considered the wisdom of what I was about to say at some point in the early hours when I woke up sweating about it.
I might regret it later, but it suddenly seemed a fine opportunity to bridge some gaps and to say something that had been bugging me for years, to perhaps reach some sort of new understanding with the difficult woman in front of me. I took another deep breath and topped up her wine glass too.
âMum,' I began in my friendliest tones, noting the way her head immediately jerked up in suspicion. âI know you and Dad had your problems and in families we all experience each other differently because of the varying dynamics and obviously Anthony did not have quite the same childhood experiences as me â' I stopped and breathed again.
âAnd Dad may have been a slightly different father to him than he was to me â but then again, you had varying styles of mothering and you were not quite the same sort of mother to me as you were to Anthony â' I saw her eyebrows shoot up and swept resolutely on. âBut I can only talk about how Dad was to me and to me â'
I paused for a moment, feeling my treacherous chin beginning to quiver once more and thinking that I really must start taking Oil of Evening Primrose again and trying to remember whether it was Agnus Castus or the hormone balancing mix they sold in the health shop that really had seemed to stop me bursting into tears and smashing things for a while.
âTo me, he was the best father I could imagine. And even after all this time I miss him and wish I could talk to him because he always made things seem better.'
I took a gulp of wine. She didn't speak.
âAnd you are, of course,' I added inconsequentially, âa fantastic grandmother to Stanley.'