Close Relations (2 page)

Gordon, too, was feeling his age. That day in September, his granddaughter's sixteenth birthday, he and Dorothy were driving down to Buckinghamshire for the lunch party.

‘Sixteen,' he said. ‘Seems only yesterday she was a baby.'

‘Seems only yesterday the girls were babies,' said Dorothy.

It was true. His daughters were three great creatures, practically middle-aged. It seemed only yesterday that they were playing together in the garden. They seemed to have grown up while his attention was momentarily diverted. It was as if he had nipped out to buy the evening paper and come home to find them women. They had mortgages and opinions. Maddy was in Nigeria, speaking Ibo or whatever, how about that?

Birthdays always gave him pause for thought. His granddaughter Imogen was sixteen – practically capable of breeding herself. They drove towards Beaconsfield. Dorothy sat beside him, a parcel on her lap. She had bought it, she saw to that side of things.

‘What is it?' he asked.

‘Wait and see. It goes with her big one, from her parents.'

‘Why won't anybody tell me?' he whined. He swerved out to overtake a lorry.

‘Gordon!' Dorothy clutched the door handle. ‘It's a secret.'

A secret – the story of his life. Girlish giggles behind closed
doors. A houseload of females, mother and daughters, closeted together. Mood-swings, whispers.
Don't tell Dad, he wouldn't understand. He's just a man
.

‘Gordon! It's a thirty-mile zone.'

Gordon was a restless, impulsive man. He drove too fast, he smoked too much. He was probably a stone overweight if he ever thought to stand on the scales. His wife was always nagging him about his health; he was sixty-five, he should have more sense. But it was his drive, his own blind energy, which had got him where he was today. It was part of the package.

In fact he resembled a parcel. He was a short, sturdy man – Maddy was the only daughter who had inherited his physique. He was getting bald, no denying that, but the extra weight was all solid, he spent his days on the go, he was as fit as a bull. There was a pugnacious set to his jaw, a forward thrust to his stocky body. But he was a cheerful man, too, a whistler. None of the young lads who worked for him whistled, they didn't have the tunes any more, but he had a repertoire of standards which used to get on his daughters' nerves. He was a robust man, he liked a drink and a joke; he was a man of action rather than a thinker and though he grumbled about the business he was happiest haring from one site to another, bawling out orders and bantering with his lads, he was a male animal through and through.

Women were by and large unfathomable. He should be used to them by now, he had had enough practice, but to tell the truth his daughters had always bemused him. Their preoccupations seemed beyond him, in another dimension entirely. And why couldn't Prudence and Maddy each find themselves a man, get married and give him some more grandchildren before it was too late?

His wife, now she was a different matter. He could rely on Dorothy. She twittered and fussed, like all women, she couldn't tell one end of a car from the other, but her femininity was of the old school, it was comprehensible to him.
They had been married for forty-four years, they held no secrets for each other. His childhood sweetheart had become a plump matron of sixty-three; when he looked at her properly, which wasn't often, it gave him a mild shock. His familiarity with her hadn't caught up with her age. Her hair, tinted now, was set in the same soft waves she had set it in for years. They were old companions, they had weathered their storms, they understood each other. If people had asked him about his marriage – which they didn't, it was too settled an institution and besides, nobody of his acquaintance talked in that language – if they had asked he would have replied that he and Dot rubbed along, what else was there to say? Conversations about relationships always made him fidget.

So Gordon Hammond and his wife drove through Beaconsfield in their Mercedes estate car, its back heaped with bags of cement. They passed the Queen Anne homes belonging to captains of industry and TV personalities. Set behind grass verges, the shops in the high street displayed designer clothes and photographs of desirable properties. The prosperity of the place – the width of the street, the manicured lawns! This was the heart of the Home Counties, sealed off from the brutish outside world. Nothing terrible could ever happen here, that was the message. Intruders beware! Wealth breathed from its renovated façades. Soon Gordon would be sitting down at Louise's table. It made his heart swell, to think that his daughter's sweet face had gained her entry into this privileged world. She had always been his golden girl, touched by the Good Fairy's wand. The reward for her beauty was two healthy children, a handsome husband and a life her sisters must surely envy.

He braked at a zebra crossing. Dorothy jerked forward. In the back of the car, paint cans shifted.

‘Gordon! One of these days you'll give me a heart attack.' She replaced the package on her lap. ‘Unless you have one yourself first.'

Six miles from Beaconsfield, in a fold of the hills, lies the village of Wingham Wallace. Set amidst rolling pastures and beechwoods it is in an area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. The village itself was recorded in the Domesday Book and its core remains – a pub, rows of cottages and a church dating from Norman times, with Victorian additions. The beauty of the village has been enhanced by age and wealth, the first needing the second for its own preservation. Within easy commuting distance of London, the place has attracted those high-fliers who wish for rural relief at the end of a demanding day. It is also convenient for Heathrow Airport, a mere thirty minutes' drive away. As a result of this several of the larger houses are inhabited by people so rarely glimpsed that they have become rumours. The smaller cottages have long since been gentrified, too, and their outhouses converted into garages that are too short for the 5-Series BMWs whose bonnets jut into the lanes and cause the passing traffic to swerve.

At its heart, however, this is still a real community inhabited by real people. Pebble-dashed council houses prove this, and bunches of youths who gather at night in the bus shelter, shifting restlessly like heifers, their cigarettes glowing in the dark. There is still a primary school – just – and a store-cum-post office run by a man called Tim, who does all the work, and his depressed wife Margot. And how could the rich live without the local people to service their households, cleaning and gardening and minding the place when they are away in the Caribbean?

On Sundays the church is well-attended, mainly by women with carrying voices and organisational skills who make jam and who campaigned successfully against a proposed development of starter homes which would have ruined the views and brought down the property prices. The vicar has long since moved into the next village; he now has five parishes in his care and the vicarage itself was sold back in the sixties. In a village of desirable properties it is one of the most enchanting – a Georgian house burdened with wistaria, grand but not imposingly so, with sunny rooms
overlooking a walled garden and a view of the Chiltern Hills from the master bedroom. Successive owners have improved the place, adding
en suite
bathrooms, a Smallbone kitchen and that essential accessory of the seventies, a conservatory. When Robert and Louise moved here with their children, six years ago, there were no more improvements to be made. This suited Robert. He hated DIY and said he had better things to do on a Sunday than stand on a ladder covered with dust.

This particular Sunday was their daughter Imogen's birthday. It was one of those early autumn days that already possess their own nostalgia; like petals packed into a bud, the dewy garden held within itself the future memories of a perfect day – the sort that makes England in general, and Wingham Wallace in particular, a satisfactory place to live. Robert's and Louise's visitors, of which there were many, remarked how it always seemed sunny at the Old Vicarage, as if one of Louise's many skills was to create her own weather for her guests.

Today's lunch was to be a family occasion – Louise's parents and her sister Prudence. Unaided by her adolescent children she was cooking the meal. She was hampered by the dog, an overweight labrador called Monty, who lumbered to his feet whenever she moved and who stood in front of the kitchen units, strings of saliva hanging from his jowls, whining as she unleafed the salami from its wrapping paper.

Louise was forty-two and still beautiful. In fact age had improved her, revealing the bone structure beneath her soft face. Twenty years of marriage had also strengthened her character, sharpening the edges that had been blurred when she was younger. Robert was a demanding husband, easily bored. He expected her to amuse him and to be a sophisticated hostess when their guests came to stay. She had always wanted to please him – too much, according to her sisters. They suspected that deep down she felt that her background and intellect were inferior to his and that she had to stay in trim, mentally and physically, to keep up with him. They
despised this lack of self-confidence, this female compliance. Didn't Robert realise how lucky he was to have her?

Louise carried some muddy lettuces in from the garden. Her son had appeared. His face was bleary with sleep. He leaned against the sink eating a bowl of Nutty Cinnamon Shapes.

‘Jamie, it's twelve o'clock.'

He raised one eyebrow. It was a new mannerism, caught from his father. ‘Chill, Ma.'

‘They'll be here in a minute.'

‘It's only Granny and Grandad.' His withering tone, too, resembled his father's voice. She hoped that he wasn't growing up to be a snob. Jamie was eighteen. Next year he was going to university. He was tall and bony, with thick fair hair. Judging by the number of phone calls for him he was becoming attractive to girls. This wasn't improving his character. They spoiled him. One would have imagined that in these post-feminist times this would be a thing of the past. But then Louise had spoiled her son too. Her sisters had always accused her of being slavish with men.

‘Budge up,' she said, dumping the lettuces in the sink.

Imogen came in, yawning. ‘Where's my black top?'

‘Is nobody going to help me?' asked Louise.

‘It's my birthday!'

Jamie, still eating, sauntered away into the living room. Sound bloomed from the TV.

‘Why does he always leave the room when I come into it?' asked Louise.

‘Because he thinks you're boring.'

‘Gap year my foot. Gap from what?' She pointed to the potatoes. ‘Scrape these, will you?'

‘That's sexist. What about Jamie?'

‘He's not here. Where's your dad?'

‘He went to buy some lemons.'

‘That was hours ago.' Louise thought: the trouble with the country was that you spent the whole time running out of things and the rest of the time in the car.

Her daughter popped a slice of salami into her mouth and wandered off. She paused to pat the dog. ‘How's my sweetie today?' she crooned. It often struck Louise that her children were nicer to their pets than they were to her. Yet neither the dog nor the rabbits had ever lifted a finger to help them, they had never been bored rigid by playing card games with them, nor had they nursed them through the night. Imogen had a sugary voice that she only used with Monty. When Louise pointed this out Imogen showed no surprise. ‘But he's so sweet,' she said. ‘So if I rolled on the floor with my legs in the air you'd be nice to me?' asked Louise.

Imogen was a small, wiry girl. Her hair was dark, like her father's, but she hadn't inherited his good looks. The person she most resembled was Aunty Maddy, a fact that her brother pointed out when he wanted to upset her. Like Aunty Maddy she was no intellectual; she was a direct, loyal girl whose slow responses irritated her father and caused Louise to jump to her defence. Robert wanted dazzling children. When Louise pointed out that success could be measured in quieter, more internal ways – didn't niceness matter? – he said that niceness was the most tepid word in the English language and should be banned. Besides, Imogen was never nice to
him
.

Upstairs, Louise brushed her hair. The arrival of her parents always filled her with trepidation. She could trust neither of the men to behave themselves; they brought out the worst in each other. Her father's pride in her and her lifestyle made him look foolish and Robert, who had a cruel streak, goaded him on, much to Louise's and her mother's embarrassment. Gordon was a simple soul. He was putty in his son-in-law's hands and became a caricature of himself – legs akimbo, rubbing his hands like a north country mayor in a play by J. B. Priestley. Louise despised him for this and then hated herself for despising him; she hated Robert turning her father into an object for his own amusement and hated herself more for finding it amusing. For her husband could always make her laugh.

It was a quarter to one. Louise went downstairs. Where was Robert? Trust him to disappear when she needed him most. He would breeze in, late; he was never late for his friends, only for her parents. Sometimes she suspected that he was jealous of her family. He had no brothers or sisters. He had been brought up in some style, a lonely little boy on whom lavish amounts of money were spent but who was shamefully neglected. His mother had been too busy marrying her various husbands to take any notice of her son, who had been sent off to boarding school at the age of four. When Louise and Robert were quarrelling he brought up this fact, embellishing it with pitiful descriptions of himself sobbing in the dormitory, clutching a sodden teddy bear. This always did the trick, reducing Louise to tears. The bastard.

There were two composers who made Prudence cry: Brahms and Schubert. Other composers could, with certain passages – Bach, during the slow movement of his double violin concerto, the violins soaring up and entwining, making love to each other with such tenderness it seemed they must break. It was Schubert and Brahms, however, who spoke to her heart. Not the symphonies – Prudence found symphonies windy and self-important, there was a look-at-me feeling about a symphony. She was a chamber music person; there was a spareness and precision about a string quartet that suited her. Prudence needed order. It was essential to her life, it was the structure upon which she depended.