Losing Me (15 page)

The sound of the downstairs doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Matt went to answer it. Ben and Nana Rose had arrived at the same time. They trooped up the stairs, Nana panting and grumbling about how steep and narrow they were.

She came into the living room, hand clamped to her chest. “Next time when I come,” she said, “you’re going to have to hoist me up by crane.”

Jess got up and took Rose’s coat. Rose handed her a plastic carrier. This contained a Marks & Spencer chocolate fudge cake plus Snickers bars and M&M’s for Atticus and Cleo. Rose never arrived empty-handed. On the other hand, she always seemed to forget that her granddaughter baked for a living and that the children weren’t allowed sweets.

“I am absolutely gagging for a cup of tea,” Rose said.

“Sit down, Nana,” Jess said. “And I’ll put the kettle on.”

Once again Matt said he would do the honors.

“What a lovely boy,” Rose said, lowering herself onto the sofa next to Frank. “But none of that hawthorn and tree-bark stuff you gave me last time. Plain will be fine.”

Matt said that he was sure they had some somewhere.

“So, Frank, Barbara tells me you’re off on another one of your jaunts.”

“Yep, you know me, Rose. A life full of jaunts.”

His sarcasm failed to register with his mother-in-law. “I don’t know why you don’t make a documentary about that Hoff chap.”

“Hoff?”

“She means the Hoff—David Hasselhoff,” Ben said.

Frank frowned, none the wiser.

“What a life that man’s had. The women, the drink, the daughters who’ve stood by him. People love all that.”

“I’ll bear it in mind,” Frank said.

By now Jess was kneeling on the floor putting photographs back in the box. “Hey, Ben,” she said. “Come and see this picture of you with no clothes on, peeing on a flower bed. It’s so cute. You were only sixteen.”

“Oh, the wit! . . . But at least I grew up knowing how to use loo paper. How’s your foray into medieval toilet practices working out? Caught any good diseases yet? Shouldn’t be long before the first boils appear in your armpits.”

“Very funny. And FYI—the plague was carried by rat fleas.”

Ben produced a roll of toilet paper from his shoulder bag. “And FYI to you . . . I intend to make my own arrangements arse-wiping-wise.”

“I have loo roll,” Jess said. “I’m not forcing guests to use family cloth.”

“What’s family cloth?” Rose piped up.

Ben was more than happy to oblige with an explanation. “It’s toilet paper made of cloth that you wash and reuse.”

“Oh my God,” Frank said, pulling a face. “Please tell me you’re not serious.”

Rose was still trying to take in what Ben had said. “What? You mean you wipe your backside and then you wash the cloth?”

“Why is everybody so against this?” Jess said.

“Er . . . let me think,” Ben said. “That would be because it’s about the most unhygienic thing imaginable.”

“No, it isn’t. You soak everything in disinfectant before you wash it.”

“And you end up with buckets of shitty disinfectanty rags sitting about the place. Nice.”

Jess was getting worked up. “Ben, you’re such a jerk. What you don’t seem to understand is that millions of trees are cut down to make toilet paper. That makes it really bad for the environment. On top of that, when you flush, the mulch goes into the sewers and the chemicals kill fish and make women grow facial hair.”

“And which peer-reviewed study did that last piece of information come from?”

“It’s common knowledge.”

“It isn’t common to me.”

“Well, I need to spend a penny,” Nana said, lifting herself off the sofa with an
oomph
. “Ben, pass me the loo roll.”

Jess actually stamped her foot. “I
have
ordinary loo roll.” But Nana had already taken Ben’s and toddled off.

“OK, you two,” Barbara said. “That’s enough bickering.” She turned to Ben. “Stop teasing your sister. This is hers and Matt’s decision. It’s nothing to do with you. Now, butt out.”

“Your mother’s right,” Frank said. “I’m sure Jess has views on you not having a job, but she keeps them to herself.”

“No, she bloody doesn’t,” Ben shot back. “She’s always calling me a layabout.”

“It’s true,” Jess said. “You are a layabout.”

“See what I have to put up with?”

“Jess, that’s mean-spirited. You know how hard it is these days for graduates to find jobs. You had it easy in your day. Now, apologize to your brother.”

Jess snorted the way she used to when she was a child and Barbara made her apologize to her brother. “Sor-ree.”

By now Rose was back. “I only did a number one, so I only needed a couple of squares,” she said to Ben, handing him back the loo roll.

In an attempt to steer the conversation away from the family cloth versus loo roll debate, Barbara asked her mother if she was still hearing Glenn Miller. By now Barbara had taken her to see a hearing specialist who had reassured her that she wasn’t going senile and had reiterated Dr. Google’s advice. Rose needed to fill the silence in her flat.

“Almost gone. I’m doing what the doctor said. I keep the radio on low all day, and it’s made a real difference. Funny what your mind can do. I still can’t get over how real it sounded.”

Barbara noticed that Ben was about to speak. Fearing he was going to start teasing his sister again, she leaped in a second time.

“Journey OK, Mum?”

“Excellent. Taxi turned up right on time. What a lovely driver. As soon as he saw me coming, he got out and opened the car door for me. They can be such gentlemen, some of these colored chappies.”

“Mum, please . . . nobody says ‘colored’ anymore. It’s racist.”

“Why? I don’t mean anything by it. And he was colored.”

“He was no more colored than you are.”

“He was black. How’s that not colored? Black is a color. White is no color.”

“OK,” Ben whispered to his mother, “watch and learn. See how skillfully I change the subject.”

“So, Nana Rose,” he kicked off, “what do you think about all these Eastern European immigrants, then?” He grinned at his mother.

“You little sod,” she hissed, bashing Ben on the arm.

“Send them all back, that’s what I say. Scroungers, the lot of them.”

“What about Arek, who owns the Polish grocery shop down the road from you?” Ben said. “You like him, don’t you?”

“Oh, now, he’s a lovely man. He used to be a chemical engineer back in Warsaw. He’s different, though. He’s a superior one.”

As if on cue, Matt emerged from the kitchen to say that the lasagna was ready to go and that everybody should sit down at the table.

Atticus came in carrying a bowl of salad. Cleo was behind him, both hands wrapped around the bottle of dressing, which no longer had its stopper. Barbara had to resist the urge to take it from her in case she dropped it. Of course she didn’t. Instead she placed it carefully on the table.

As usual, Atticus and Cleo were allowed to dominate the conversation. Barbara didn’t entirely approve of Jess and Matt’s child-centered approach to family mealtimes. She was a great believer in children being encouraged to participate in adult conversation, but she also thought it was important for them to practice listening. That was how they learned.

“I hate lasagna,” Atticus harrumphed.

“Darling, you love lasagna,” Jess said. “It’s one of your favorites.”

Matt suggested making him some eggs.

Nana Rose’s eyes widened. “Don’t you dare, Matthew. Children must learn to eat what’s put in front of them.”

“But Atticus can be a robust refuser,” Matt said.

“So let him refuse. Send him to bed hungry. He won’t do it more than once.”

It wasn’t often that Barbara agreed with her mother, but right now she couldn’t have been more on her side. As the family matriarch, Rose had no qualms about speaking her mind. It was a privilege born of age, and nobody took offense. Barbara had yet to earn that privilege. She still caused offense when she voiced opinions contrary to those held by her children.

Atticus, clearly intimidated by his great-grandmother’s stern forthrightness, got busy with his knife and fork.

“There you are,” Nana Rose said to Matt. “What did I tell you?”

“So,” Atticus said through a mouthful of lasagna, “if a starfish fought a crab, who would win?”

Nana Rose told him that it was rude to speak with his mouth full.

“It’s not rude,” Atticus replied. “Mum says only ‘fuck’ is rude.”

Jess didn’t seem remotely embarrassed. “Actually, that’s true,” she said to her grandmother. “Matt and I aren’t very strict on table manners.”

Rose gave a regal snort. “So I see.”

“Nana,” Cleo said. “How old are you?”

“I’m eighty-three years young,” Rose said, beaming now.

“That’s not young. It’s old. So, when are you going to die?”

Rose hooted. “Oh, darling, I don’t know. Not for a while, I hope.”

“And will you go to heaven?”

“I very much hope so.”

“Are there dinosaurs in heaven?” Cleo said.

“If they were good while they were on earth, they will be,” Nana told her.

“Why only if they’ve been good? What if they’ve been bad?”

“Then they burn in hell,” Atticus said. “It’s full of flames and people are in agony forever and ever.”

“No, they’re not! That’s horrible. Stop saying those things.” With that Cleo punched her brother.

He burst into tears and ran into the bedroom. His sister called after him:

“Ha-ha! Atticus is a crybaby.”

Their mother’s threat of no cake persuaded the children to call a truce.

After dinner they persuaded everybody to let them show off their juggling skills. Rose made her disapproval clear. Who in their right mind let children play with balls in the house? Something was bound to get broken. Jess assured her that they would be fine. While the adults sat, Atticus and Cleo stood in the middle of the room, two colored balls apiece. Matt had supposedly been teaching them to throw both balls in the air at the same time and catch them with the opposite hand. Each time Cleo attempted this most basic of juggling moves, she dropped both balls. Atticus was only slightly better. After repeated attempts, they both looked close to tears. The adults responded with applause and shouts of: “Yay . . . Well done. Good effort.”

Only Rose looked perplexed. “But they were useless,” she whispered to Barbara. “Why on earth would you praise failure?”

“Right. I think it might be cake time,” Jess announced.

Atticus and Cleo presented Frank with the carrot cake they’d made. It was covered in splodges and smears of red and green frosting (stevia for sweetness, plus natural colorings). On top of this they’d arranged a selection of Lego people and birthday candles. Matt lit them, and the children insisted everybody sing “Happy Mexico to you” to Frank. Afterwards, he blew out his candles.

“Make a wish, Granddad. Make a wish.”

Frank made a face to suggest that he was thinking very hard indeed.

“But you mustn’t tell anybody,” Cleo insisted.

Frank promised he wouldn’t.

Barbara watched him as he cuddled his grandchildren and told them how much he was going to miss them. She could tell he’d been touched by the cake and the singing. “Suddenly I’m feeling really sad about going and leaving you all,” Frank said.

She wondered how sad he felt about leaving her.

“So, don’t go,” Rose said. “Stay and make a documentary about the Hoff. That’ll put bums on seats.”

That night in bed, Frank put his arms around Barbara’s waist and began kissing the back of her neck.

“Frank, if you’re after going-away sex, I can’t do it.”

“But I just took a pill,” he said. “And it was what I wished for when I blew out my candles.”

“Well, you don’t always get what you wish for.”

“But I don’t want to leave with you still angry with me. I hate going away when there’s an atmosphere.”

“I’m sorry. But you’re asking me to make you feel better, and I can’t.”

“Fine,” he said, turning his back on her. “And I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry I can’t be the husband you want. But like I said, I do my best.”

•   •   •

At seven the next morning Frank and Barbara were standing in the hall waiting for Frank’s taxi. Barbara was in her dressing gown, nursing a mug of coffee.

“I’ll call you as soon as I land,” Frank said.

“Sure . . . Did you remember your indigestion tabs?”

“In my hand luggage.”

“Good.”

Silence. They’d been like this since they got up: awkwardly polite or silent—neither of them wanting to start a fight.

Ben broke this particular silence. He came thumping down the stairs, his face creased with sleep, his hair looking like a family of small rodents had overnighted in it. He extended his hand towards Frank. “Cheerio, Father. Give the Hun hell.”

“Roger that. Good-bye, old bean.” The two men shook hands and exchanged backslaps. Ben had invented this gung ho, wartime comedy routine when he was thirteen or fourteen and starting to find paternal displays of affection embarrassing. Frank had been happy to go along with it. But it upset Barbara that they had chosen to stop kissing and hugging. When she’d raised the subject with Frank, he’d told her to stop interfering. It was their relationship, and they would conduct it how they chose. Barbara had realized she had to respect this and did as she was told.

A car hooted.

“Right, that’s me.” Frank slung his bag over his shoulder.

“Safe journey,” Barbara said.

He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I do love you, you know,” he whispered.

She nodded. It was all she could offer.

He wheeled his two enormous suitcases out to the cab. As he looked back, she managed a halfhearted wave. She closed the door. It was then that the familiar feeling crept over her. She knew she deserved to be loved, but at the same time, she couldn’t help feeling that by leaving, Frank was punishing her for being bad. And rightly so.

“Mum,” Ben said, following his mother into the kitchen, “is everything OK between you and Dad?”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I dunno. Lately you’ve seemed a bit off with each other.”

The comment surprised her. She thought her son existed in an egocentric fog, barely noticing anything that went on outside his own orbit. Clearly she was wrong.